
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap..lEZ^Copyright No.. 

3 o 5 ^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






































































































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FRANKIE PARKER DAVIS 



Kentucky Folks 


And Some Others. 



BY 

FRANKIE PARKER DAVIS. 



1900 

THE EDITOR PUBLISHING CO 
CINCINNATI 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 
Library cf Congress* 
Office o f the 

JAN 29 1900 

Register of Copyright 


% 



60021 


SECOND COPY, 


*1— U O U 

CVA-'V. *. ^ « 

O o * 


KENTUCKY FOLKS AND SOME OTHERS. 





DEDICATORY. 


TO THE MEMORY 
OP 

MY DARLING MOTHER, 

MRS MARY HOWARD PARKER, 
THIS VOLUME IS 
DEDICATED. 


NOTE: — The above is, I believe, what Mrs. Davis would have written for 
this page. I know 1 have named the person to whom she would have dedicated 
the book; for no mother was ever more fondly loved, or more tenderly cared 
for in old age than was she by her youngest child, the author of these produc- 
tions; nor was ever child more completely idolized, and each was worthy of 
the affection bestowed. 


H. W. D. 



The stories and poems here presented were written as 
a means of expressing the thoughts and feelings and the 
delineations of character and phases of life that presented 
themselves to the mind of the writer and would not down 
till committed to paper. 

Had she lived, she would have revised, and, doubtless, 
improved them, before allowing them to appear in book 
form ; but feeling that no other person could do this in the 
way she would have done it, I have thought best to let 
them appear just as she left them . 

They are now given to the public with the hope that 
they will furnish entertainment, elevating, pure and whole- 
some. H. W. D. 





















CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Only a Tie 1 

Joe’s Sweetheart - 30 

How Mrs. Grafton Built Up the Plainville Church. 36 
Old Memories ----- 52 

How they Fooled the Old Folks - - 54 

A Summer’s Idyl - - - 65 

Ida Vane’s Proposal - - 68 

The Drought of Eighty-Seven 85 

Donna Venita; a Romance of San Jacinto Bay 90 

He Doeth All Things Well - - 110 

Marguerite’s Home Coming - 112 


CONTENTS. 


To My Mother in Heaven ... 119 

Love at Hazel Brook - 123 

Awakened - 135 

The Old Stone Steps - - - 136 

May Vernon’s Trials ... 137 

Weary - - 168 

Little Nina - ... 170 

My Broken Lily - - - 178 

To the Meadows - 180 

Ethel Huntington’s Lesson - 182 

Trusting ..... 183 


CONTENTS. 


How Miss Rhoda Martin Cheated the Census 


Enumerator - 189 

Jacksonville Scourge - 

Geraniums .... - 199 

Maud Belmont’s Test ... 201 

The Lone Grave .... 209 

After Many Years ... 212 

Little Footsteps Come No More - - 226 

Little Robert .... 228 

Autumnal Pleas .... 230 

Almost Home .... 232 

















































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KENTUCKY FOLKS 

AND 


SOME OTHERS. 





























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ONLY A TIE. 


CHAPTER I. 

“The tie so firmiy bound, 

Is torn asunder now; 

How deep that sudden wrench may wound 
It recks not to avow.” 

The season of blossoms had lingered in all its blush- 
ing beauty and fragrance, and now it was slowly 
“passing out the gates of May.” The warm south 
wind’s breath had long since come on the wings of the 
golden sunshine and stolen silently up the sloping sides 
of the Cumberland Mountains. It had kissed the violets 
and they had awakened from their winter’s sleep. The 
icy fetters of the turbid mountain streams had melted 
away, and on their moss-fringed margins, golden-crowned 
dandelions sprang into life and beauty. Star-eyed dai- 
sies, forgetful that the wooing breath of spring is some- 
times treacherous, ventured forth and unfolded their 
snowy petals. The perfume of the May-flower, grape 
vine, crab-apple blossoms, and the trailing arbutus ling- 
ered in the air and was borne by the rambling zephyr 
over hill and dale. The grand laurel grew upon, the 
lofty mountain heights and in its branches sang the 
birds, allured thither by the approach of summer; or, 
in the cedar boughs they formed an orchestra, in which 
were mingled the joyous song of the mocking bird, the 

1 


2 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


full, fresh notes of the thrush and the shrill whistle of 
the cardinal grosbeak, while from the dusky distance 
came distinctly clear the pathetic wail of the whip-poor- 
will, and all commingling made the rock-ribbed moun- 
tains echo with melody. Deep gorges, not unlike the 
canons of the far West, lay between precipitous moun- 
tains, and not infrequently a wild cat or a panther was 
found lurking among the cliffs and caverns. 

To add to the weirdness of the scene, the low, sad 
music of the pines reverberated like a mournful chant 
over departed hopes. 

Down in the valley, nestling close to the banks of the 
Cumberland river, lay the booming mountain town of 
Plantville. This young city, with its numerous church 
spires gleaming in the sunlight, its splendid system of 
waterworks, electric lights, and all modern improvements, 
had sprung up as by the touch of the magician’s wand, 
and, like a diamond set in emeralds, it lay surrounded on 
allsides by towering mountains. 

The country around Plantville was a rugged part of 
the State, inhabited by a class of people whose manners 
and customs were in keeping with the general character 
of their native laud. They cultivated such things as 
their small farms on the mountain sides would produce. 
They raised chickens and vegetables and by means of 
small marketing managed to eke out a miserable exist- 
ence at best. They were honest in their way, but firm 
believers in natural liberty, unhampered by the restric- 
tions of law and were strongly set on the opinion that a 
man had a right to make and sell what he pleased; and 
this opinion, practically applied, not unfrequently re- 
sulted in the rout or apprehension of some illicit distiller 
of ^death’s beverage, better known as “mountain dew.” 


ONLY A TIE 


3 


Eastern capitalists had found this remote mountain 
town, and ere long, the great iron horse, with its shrill 
whistle, was awakening echoes from the mountain side 
and valleys. Treasures from depths were unearthed, rich 
ore found, mines put into operation and in a short time 
a steady flow of emigration poured into the valley, and 
Plantville was aroused from her lethargic existence into 
a booming town. 

It was when Plantville was in the zenith of its glory 
that Senator Carlton, of New York, a capitalist deeply 
interested in the future of this thriving town, sent out 
his son, a youth of eighteen, as his agent. Hope Carlton 
was the only child of doting parents, and this separation 
was a great trial to both father and mother. But he had 
never been very strong and they believed the change from 
the city to the pure mountain air would bring him back 
to them robust and vigorous. Believing this, they were 
willing to undergo any deprivation to see their idol re- 
stored. 

It was a bright morning, and the sun shone with 
dazzling splendor, as if heralding with joy the approach- 
ing month of roses. On the side of one of the less pre- 
cipitous mountains stood a primitive log cabin with a 
little farm extending in the rear. The vine-clad porch 
and blooming roses told of culture and refinement. 

Charity Parton had put the finishing touches to the 
arrangement of their little domicile and now she stood 
in the doorway ’neath the clambering vines. She was 
studying the landscape that spread out before her ad- 
miring eyes in a picture of more exquisite coloring than 
any artist could have given it. Far below, lay the youth- 
ful city so full of busy life; beyond, at the mountain’s 
base, winding in and out like a liquid band of silver, 


4 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


rolled the Cumberland river, and nearer, the great en- 
gine with its long train of heavily laden cars steamed 
onward; while over the river, over the mountains, hung 
the great cloud of mist, seeming at times to almost en- 
velope Plantville in its folds. 

But the mist w T as melting away before the sun’s ar- 
dent rays and ere long would be a thing of the past, only 
to gather again and hang like a mantle over the moun- 
tain peaks on the following morning. So often had she 
watched this cloud of mist that it seemed interwovtn in 
her life. So often had she seen it come and go, some- 
times rosy with the morning sun, then silvery like a 
bridal veil , and again dark and lowering. So many fan- 
cies had she interwoven with this cloud that it seemed 
to her a story. She was wholly unconscious, this moun- 
tain girl, “worshiping nature through nature’s God,” of 
the artistic picture she was making, and her voice burst 
out in the wildest, most joyous melody. 

Hope Carlton, who had been out for a morning ram- 
ble, stood at the gate enjoying in all its loveliness the 
picture framed in such a net-work of beauty. The same 
voice he had heard echoing among the rocks and hills 
in his prospecting tours. Sometimes it seemed so near, 
then again far away and so soft and sweet. But when 
this outburst of melody greeted him in the words he had 
listened to so often, he knew that the voice he had 
learned to love and this were one and the same. “My 
mountain sprite, at last,” he thought; “and how lovely! 
She is as beautiful as the voice that has haunted my 
night and day dreams.” 

But her quick ear had caught the click of the gate- 
latch, and the song died on her lips as she saw a stranger 
standing before her. A tall, fair-faced, sunny-haired 


ONLY A TIE 


5 


youth it was whose laughing, blue eyes greeted her as 
he deferentially raised his hat and said : 

“Whom have I the honor of meeting? The goddess 
of the mountain mists, or the weird mountain nymph, 
who by her siren voice casts a spell over all who come 
within its sound?” 

“Neither, sir! I am simply Charity Parton, the 
mountain girl, as the new-comers call me in Plantville. 
And you are — ?” 

“Hope Carlton, one of the‘boomers, ’ you might say, 
of that same town,” he laughingly replied. “I called to 
get a drink of water, and, with your permission, will 
rest awhile. I am not very athletic, having lived all my 
life in the city, and it will take me sometime to get used 
to roughing it.” 

“Oh, certainly; come in and rest as long as you 
like. We are not often honored by so distinguished a 
visitor, especially a ‘boomer;’ ” and she laughed at the 
idea of that delicate form and effeminate face being char- 
acterized as a “boomer.” “I will go at once,” she said, 
“and not keep you waiting. Our spring water is very 
cool, and, perhaps, will refresh you.” 

She went for the water and, on returning, found 
that the stranger had thrown himself down on a rustic 
seat and was enjoying the freshness and balminess of the 
morning. He arose, and, taking the proffered gourd, 
which he handled with care, having never seen anything 
so quaint, drank the cooling beverage; but no prince, in 
fairy stories, sipping the nectar of the gods from a 
golden goblet, ever felt so highly favored as this young 
New Yorker in his romantic surroundings, and no soci- 
ety belle had ever thrilled him as did this simple moun- 
tain girl. Thanking her he said : 


6 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“It is so delightful here, I do not wonder that you 
sing so joyous and free.” 

“Do you really like our home?” she asked. “I 
think it is the sweetest place on earth, if only sorrow 
had never drooped her wings over us.” 

“Then you have known sorrow.” 

“My mother — I have no mother, ”and her eyes filled 
with tears. “Do you see the marble yonder?” and she 
pointed towards a small enclosure. “My mother sleeps 
there. We are all alone now, my father and myself.” 

“You have lonely hours sometimes then?” 

“Yes, very often, but I go to my mother’s grave and 
she does not seem far away.” 

“Will you allow me to come and join you in your 
walks to that sacred spot? Perhaps we could cheer each 
other. I am away from my mother, too.” 

“Oh! I would enjoy and appreciate your calls very 
much if you think I could make it pleasant for you.” 

“I assure you it will be a very sweet rest for me, 
away from my business cares,” and he arose to go. 

“I fear you are not sufficiently rested to make the 
descent,” she said. “The nearer way is very steep.” 

“Thank you, I am much refreshed and am provided 
with a staff, sol presume I will make it in safety, unless 
I am again charmed by a siren’s voice.” 

He bade her adieu and went on his way bearing her 
image in his heart, while she returned to her work with 
a love-song on her lips that echoed and re-echoed 
throughout the humble cot. 

Charity Parton was very beautiful, with her dark, 
gypsyish face, rich olive complexion, and purplish-black 
hair that clustered in curls about her face and hung be- 
low her waist. Her eyes were very dark with a world 


ONLY A TIE 


7 


of expression in their liquid depth 3, and her cheeks were 
of a rich carmine tint. She was educated, too, far 
above those by whom she was surrounded. Her mother 
and father were Virginians by birth, and had once been 
very prosperous, but a stroke of adversity had come, and 
with it they came to Kentucky ; and, finding land cheap, 
they bought a small farm and settled where we find 
them. Mrs. Parton’s health was very delicate, and they 
hoped a few years residence in this healthful region 
would restore her. There hopes were realized for awhile, 
but, as the years went by, she began to decline, and, with 
deep grief, Charity and her father knew that their loved 
one was passing away. She was spared long enough, 
however, to instill her own noble principles into her 
daughter’s heart, and to see her educated by her own 
teaching, and ripening into beautiful womanhood. Then 
with her dying blessing lingering on her lips, one hand 
clasped in that of her husband, the other resting on 
Charity’s head, she sank sweetly to sleep. They laid 
her to rest on the mountain side, and the bereaved ones 
returned to their desolate home, feeling that one link of 
their life was broken. 

Reverses and death had chilled Mr. Parton’s hopes 
and aspirations. Their life, so different here from the 
life he had known in Virginia, seemed now to fully sat- 
isfy him. But with Charity it was different. She was 
young; life had some claims on her, and often she stood 
wondering about the great w^orld beyond the long line of 
blue hills. 

But Hope Carlton’s coming had awakened new 
hopes, new dreams. True to his promise, he came again 
and often, and love wove golden threads in the web of 
their lives and sang happy songs in their hearts. This 


8 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


was Hope’s first love, and no thought of deceiving Char- 
ity Parton ever entered his mind. He was eighteen, she 
only sixteen — so young, too, to have learned the sweet 
and bitter lessson of love’s young dream. Month’s had 
sped oh, and the two lover’s lived only in each other’s 
presence. It was heaven to be united, death to be 
parted. They had plighted their troth and were soon to 
be united in marriage. But one thing now prevented 
their perfect happiness, and Hope pondered day and 
night over what would be the best course to pursue. 
His mother was a proud, strong-willed woman. He had 
never gone against that iron will in all his life, and he 
very well knew that it would be death to his hopes 
should she know of his approaching marriage. If Char- 
ity knew of his mother’s great opposition to his mar- 
riage with a poor girl she would die sooner than marry 
him, for she, too, was proud and would enter no family 
in which she would not be received on equal footing, as 
a daughter. What was he to do? Here was a dilemma, 
either horn of which he took would be fatal to his de- 
sires. If his mother knew it, he would lose Charity, and 
he could not explain to Charity, for by so doing he 
would be doubly sure to lose her, so in anguish of spirit 
he resolved to be true to himself and to her whom he 
loved. So they were quietly married, Mr. Parton giv- 
ing them his sanction and blessing. 

Oh! the days and months of happiness in that 
peaceful mountain home. Together they wandered over 
hill and dale. Together they read and dreamed bright 
dreams of the future. Charity always met her young 
husband far down the mountain path, and, with her 
;arm linked in his, together they would slowly wend their 
way homeward. A year of perfect happiness had gone 


ONLY A TIE 


9 


by and not a cloud had dawned upon their horizon, and 
now their cup was filled to the brim and running over 
with happiness. A little girl babe nestled in Charity’s 
arms, with Hope’s eyes, Hope’s mouth and his sunny 
hair. 

“We will call her Lourline, that was my mother’s 
name,” said Charity. So little Lourline, as she grew 
in beauty became the queen of the household. Mr. Par- 
ton, even, seemed to awake from his listless state into 
new hopefulness and cheer, for the sake of his bright lit- 
tle granddaughter. 

Almost two years had gone by since Hope Carlton had 
left New York, and only once had he been home since he 
came to Plantville, and that was before his marriage. 
Lourline was now almost a year old and Hope seemed 
proud of his beautiful wife and child. He would often 
say that he wished his father could see little Lourline, 
but Charity did not ask why he never expressed any 
wish to take them to see his home folks. But she knew 
Hope loved them ; her life centered in him, and she cared 
for nothing else. 

It was May again, just two years since she stood in 
the vine-covered porch singing glad anthems of praise 
and making a picture that won for her the idol of her 
life. She now stood at the gate with little Lourline 
clasped in her arms, watching her young husband go 
down the narrow path. His kisses were fresh on their 
lips and little Lourline caught his backward glances and 
threw out her little hand, crying “bye-bye.” Why did 
Charity’s mind go back to that May morning long ago, 
and why did she unconsciously look toward the cloud 
of mist that still hovered over the mountain peaks? 

Oh! Charity Parton? Charity Parton! you may 


10 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


well gaze on the cloud of mist with awe, for ere another 
day dawns upon you a cloud darker than you have ever 
known, will, indeed, fall across your threshold and shut 
out your happy young life. 

“Young love’s first dream, 

A dream indeed unreal, shadowy, brief, 

Is done and ended.” 


CHAPTER II. 

“A most portentious trial awaits thee now.” 

When Charity could no longer see her husband she 
retraced her steps, and, placing little Lourline in her 
chair, set about her duties. 

Hope Carlton went down the mountain side whist- 
ling a merry tune, thinking of all men, he certainly was 
the happiest. Little did he dream of the cloud that was 
gathering, nor how soon it would overcast his life-sky. 
All day his heart seemed thrilled with happiness that 
was the outgrowth of perfect contentment. But just 
before the arrival of the evening train he was startled 
out of his peaceful self-composure. A telegram was 
handed him, and with great surprise he read : 

“Coming to see you on the 7:30 train. 

Mother.” 

If a thunderbolt had burst from a cloudless sky 
upon him he could not have been more astonished. His 
mother was coming and all would be known now. What 
could he do? Nothing seemed clear to him but to brave 
it out like an honorable man. He had just time to 
thrust the despatch iato his pocket, for already the train 
had whistled, and on he hurried to the depot to meet 
his molher. 


ONLY A TIE 


11 


Mrs. Carlton seemed greatly rejoiced to meet her 
son, and complimented him on his good looks and health- 
ful, robust appearance. He conducted her to the hotel, 
which was soon reached, and left her in the parlor. 
While they were making ready her room, he went to see 
after her baggage. No sooner had Hope’s footsteps died 
away than one of the lady boarders entered. “You are 
Mr. Hope Carlton’s mother?”she began. 

“I have that honor,” replied Mrs. Carlton. 

The lady boarder being very found of gossip, espec- 
ially enjoyed being the bearer of startling news, and 
plunged at once into an animated conversation. 

“Your first visit to Plantville, is it not?” she asked 
Mrs. Carlton. 

“My very first, and quite a long trip it is, too, but 
I could wait no longer to see my boy ; he seems so happy 
here I was fearful he would forget us entirely.” 

“I do not wonder he seems so happy here,” an- 
swered the lady, and continuing, “1 presume you had a 
great desire to see your son’s wife and child? They are 
both very beautiful.” 

“My son’s wife and child!” said Mrs. Carlton, ris- 
ing to her feet. “My son’s wife and child? My son is 
not married; you are mistaken, madam.” 

“Indeed, I am not; he has been married quite two 
years, and Charity Parton, the mountain girl, is his 
wife.” 

She could see what effect her words were having; 
could see how the proud woman paced the floor and 
clinched her hands in her anger, and secretly the gossip- 
ing woman was enjoying the scene she was causing, but 
she had politeness enough to retire when she heard Hope 
Carlton’s footsteps. 


12 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Hope entered the room in his own happy way, with 
some joyous expression on his lips, but one glance at his 
mother told him that he had been betrayed. 

She sprang toward him with all the fierceness of an 
enraged tigress, and seizing his arms held them in a 
death-like grasp, while she hissed, rather than spoke : 

“Say it is false! Say that you are not married to 
Charity Parton, the mountain girl? Say it is false, or 
I will still the very life-blood in your veins!” 

Hope closed his eyes to shut out that terrible 
vision before him. And she was his mother, his mother 
whom he had not seen for many long months. 

“Release me,” he finally said, “and I will tell you 
all about it.” 

Her arms dropped to her side and he took a step 
back. Looking into her angry eyes he said: “Yes, 
mother, it is true. I am married to the truest, purest, 
sweetest woman on earth, and her name was Charity 
Parton. She is a mountain girl and as beautiful as a 
dream of heaven. She is educated, and her only sin, 
you would call it a sin, is that she was poor. We have 
a lovely little girl. Now, my mother,” and he knelt at 
her feet, “on bended knee I plead with you ; will you 
not receive my darlings into your family? Will you not 
let Charity be your daughter?” 

“Charity! What a name!” and she laughed in 
scorn. “Typical of a mountain character, I suppose. 
What would we do with Charity Parton in New York 
circles? The idea is preposterous. Arise, my son; 
you are mine still and all the Charity Partons on earth 
shall not take you from me. You shall never see this 
low-born woman and her child again. Do you hear me ! 
My words are law; you shall return home with me to- 


ONLY A TIE 


13 


morrow. Your father shall send out another agent, and 
your life in Plantville shall be a thing of the past.” 

‘‘Oh, mother, mother! What are you doing? What 
do you mean? Would you break my heart, blight my 
life, destroy my hopes? I must see my wife and child 
again. You cannot, you shall not, keep me here,” and he 
started toward the door, but she intercepted him and 
locked it. 

“You shall never see her again, I repeat it, I repeat 
it. You are mine, you are under my control, and 
I would leave for New York this moment if there 
was a train, but, unfortunately, I must wait till morn- 
ing. You shall goto my room and spend the night,” 
she said as she answered a summons at the door. 

“Your room is ready,” said the servant, “and I will 
show you to it.” 

Hope preceded his mother to their room, and threw 
himself disconsolately on the couch. He could see Char- 
ity at the door watching for him, could see the long gray 
shadows gathering over the mountain path, and the 
smoke curling from the chimney of their mountain home. 
He could feel little Lourline’s arms about his neck and 
her kisses on his cheeks. Starting up wildly he cried: 

“Mother for God’s sake let me go to my loved ones ! 
do not, I entreat you, if you love me as a mother ought 
to love her child, do not be so cruel.” 

But she was deaf to his pleadings, and all night he 
paced the floor, guarded by that irate woman he called 
mother. 

Charity, with little Lourline in her arms, watched 
for his coming at their trysting place down the moun- 
tain path. She watched and waited until the last sun- 
beam disappeared behind the mountain peaks, listening 


14 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


eagerly and starting up at every sound, hoping to be 
greeted by her husband. Twilight shadows gathered, 
the air became chill, and she shuddered at the thought 
of returning home without him she so loved. Even lit- 
tle baby Lourline seemed to feel the disappointment, and 
as they retraced their steps, she kept repeating “bye, 
bye.” How dismal it seemed around the fireside with- 
out him, and what had happened, she kept wondering, 
to detain him. He had never stayed from them this way 
before. But, surely, he would come ere long. Hours 
dragged slowly by, her father retired, and still she kept 
her lonely vigil, going to the door, to the gate, and lis- 
tening, oh, so eagerly, for the footsteps that never 
came. 

A presentiment of coming sorrow seemed to gather 
around her heart and sadly she lay down by the side of 
her sleeping babe, but sleep came not to those weary 
eyelids. When the first gray dawn of morning began 
to peep through the casement, she arose almost prostra- 
ted with the nervous dread of something going to hap- 
pen. 

Poor Hope, weary and heart-sick, just as daylight 
began to break over the town, threw himself on the bed 
that had been untouched all night and dropped into a 
deep sleep. 

Mrs. Carlton, assuring herself that he was not 
likely to awaken very soon, stole silently out of the room, 
locked the door, and gave orders that her son was to be 
left undisturbed. She procured a carriage and driver 
and drove rapidly toward the mountain cabin. 

Charity, still watching for her husband, heard the 
approaching wheels, and saw a carriage stop at the gate 
and an elegantly dressed lady alight. “Who could it 


ONLY A TIE 


15 


be? Did she bring news of Hope?” were her thoughts. 
Her father had gone out on the farm to attend to some- 
thing, and baby was asleep. The lady came toward the 
house, and stood in the door of the sacred, vine-clad 
porch. 

•‘You are Charity Parton?” said the lady. 

“Charity Carlton,” answered the girl, “and oh, tell 
me, do you bring me news of Hope?” 

The woman entered the room where lay the sleep- 
ing child so beautiful in its innocence. For a moment 
a wave of tenderness seemed to sweep her heart-strings, 
and she gazed on the exquisite beauty of the mother 
and child, and the sanctuary seemed too holy to be des- 
ecrated. But the old, bitter hatred of poverty came 
back, jealousy that another should hold her son’s heart, 
jealous of the wee darling, perhaps then guarded by 
angels. Hatred shone in her eyes as she said: 

“No, not Charity Carlton, if you please; Charity 
Parton, now and forever. I give you back your name, 
and do not dare to ever call yourself Charity Carlton 
again. Yes, I have news of Hope Carlton ; he is sleep- 
ing as sweetly at the hotel in Plantville as if he had 
never seen or heard of the low-born mountain girl who 
has ensnared him into her harem.” 

Charity’s breath came quick and fast ; all the proud 
blood of centuries coursed through her veins and man- 
tled her cheeks, and in scornful tones she asked : 

“Who are you, woman, that you dare address Hope 
Carlton’s wife in such terms?” 

“I am Hope Carlton’s proud, unrelenting mother, 
and I have come to sever the bonds between you. In his 
weakness he yielded to your charms, but he now sees 
in its true light, the enormity of such a degrading alii- 


18 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


ance and returns with me to New York, to forget this 
one error of his young life. We leave on the first train 
this morning and you will never look on his face again. 
Go back to your true name, Charity Parton, and be con- 
tent with your humble sphere, and never try to soar 
above your station again. To think that such a low- 
born creature would come between me and mine, would 
try to blast my fondest hopes. Oh! I want to break 
your heart piecemeal.” 

“You have accomplished your purpose, madam, not 
piecemeal, but at one fatal stroke,” said Charity, 
staggering back. “You are taking from me my very 
life, but if he loves me no more you may take him and 
welcome, only tell him for me that Charity Parton sets 
him free ; he has broken her heart and she longs for 
nothing now but death.” 

“Rest assured, miss, the love you basked in so long 
was only felt when under your baleful influence. The 
spell is broken now and you have no claims on him. Re- 
member your are Charity Parton now and forever. Ah ! 
there is still a tie,” she said sneeringly, taking a step 
toward the sleeping child, “and I had best take that, too. 
Only a tie to bind my son to this hated life, if I take 
that every link will be broken.” 

All the fierceness of Charity’s nature shone out in 
that supreme moment. Springing toward the bed, she 
took the child in her arms, clasped it to her bosom, and 
6aid in tones wherein were blended, pathos, hopeless- 
ness, and scorn : 

“You can take your child, madam, but you cannot 
take mine. Lourline is all that is left me now, and only 
with my life can she be taken. She is henceforth Lour- 
line Parton. I would scorn to wear the name of a man 


ONLY A TIE 


17 


who would desert his wife and child, and I am sure my 
beautiful darling shall never wear his name.” Oh! how 
proudly she drew herself up, and her velvety eyes, moist 
with unshed tears, shone like diamonds. “You have 
come,” she continued, “like a great wave of darkness, 
aud left me hopeless and aimless, but there is a God 
above who is the God, too, of Charity Parton, the poor 
mountain girl. I look to him ; he says, ‘Vengeance is 
mine, I will repay.’ ” 

Mrs. Carlton quailed before the proud, defiant gaze 
of the peerless looking woman who stood before her, 
clasping the babe to her bosom, and she w T ent out of the 
house noiselessly, got into her carriage and drove away. 
Hope was still sleeping when his mother returned, but 
she aroused him to eat breakfast, and make ready for 
their journey. He got up in a dazed sort of wav, and, 
leaving his breakfast untouched, only did what she told 
him and nothing more. He made no remonstrance at 
anything she suggested, and said no more of his wife 
and child. 

Soon the train was due and mother and son were on 
board, speeding on toward their destination. Only once 
did Hope seem to manifest any interest in anything, and 
that was when Plantville was disappearing from view. 
He looked toward the mountain where nestled the lowly 
cabin home of Charity Parton ; tears rolled down his 
cheeks and he bowed his head on the back of the seat 
while convulsive sobs broke his frame. 

His mother sat by his side unmoved, and bearing on 
her cDuntenance only a cold, merciless expression. She 
thought his grief was only that of a child, poignant, 
indeed, at present, but that change of scene and the as- 
sociation with his former friends would soon cause him 


18 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


to forget those he was leaving. Yes, she even believed 
that in a short time he would see how utterly out of un- 
ison with their surroundings such a marriage was and 
that he would blush at the remembrance of his youthful 
indiscretion. 

After the departure of Mrs. Carlton, Charity stood 
watching the receding carriage, and, as of yore, she 
turned her gaze toward the cloud of mist that now 
seemed to be hovering in sorrow over the mountains. 
Was it enveloping her brief young life? Was this death, 
this darkness gathering around her, and this cold hand 
clutching at her heartstrings? She laid little Lourline 
on the bed and turned around, but nothing greeted her 
but darkness. Night had settled over the May morning, 
and she sank to the floor in a dead faint. 

“Her love had perished, like the sound that dies 
And leaves no echo, like the eastern day 
That has no twilight; like the lonely flower, 

Hung forth to wither on the wind, that wastes 
Even its perfume.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“Sunrise will come next! 

The shadow of the night is passed away! 

Here begins your true career. 

Look up to it! All now is possible— 

The glory and the grandeur of each dream, 

And every prophecy shall be fulfilled.” 

The fire had burned low on the hearth; baby Lour- 
line had played herself to sleep, and the vine- clad porch 
now lay in shadows, but still Charity remained in that 
deathlike swoon. Her father, coming in a little later 
found her in this unconscious state, and greatly alarmed, 
began bathing her face and doing all in his power to re- 


ONLY A TIE 


19 


store her. He was soon rewarded by seeing her eyes 
slowly unfold and hearing her whisper : 

“Hope — is gone — gone forever.” 

Her father gathered her in his arms, and seating 
himself, she wept out her sorrow on his faithful breast. 
When she grew stronger she told him all. All his la- 
tent energies seemed aroused. 

“Low-born, indeed!” he said. “Never mind, my 
daughter,” and he lovingly stroked her hair. “Be brave 
and strong, and we will yet make them proud of Charity 
Parton, the poor mountain girl. We will sell our little 
farm, for which, only yesterday, I had an offer of three 
times its cost. This will enable me to set up in business, 
at least in a small way, in the city of L — , whither we 
will go, and there you shall have all the advantages I 
can give you.” 

So the good father sold the little home, and the two, 
bidding adieu to their loved dead, found themselves, ere 
long, in L — . Oh ! who so faithful, so true, or ready to 
help us bear the burdens of life as a loved parent. 

Arrived in the city, Mr. Parton soon found a cousin 
whom he had left in Virginia. This gentleman, know- 
ing Mr. Parton’s excellent business capacity, and need- 
ing a man, gave him the position at once. This good 
fortune caused Mr. Parton to change his plans, and the 
means he had brought with him to invest in business 
were, accordingly, devoted to the purchase of a neat and 
desirable suburban cottage. 

So their new life began. Contact with the business 
world and association with commercial men soon brought 
back the vigor and sparkle of an active life to Mr. Par- 
ton ; while Charity, seeing the great change wrought in 
her father, became cheerful and hopeful. A new world 


20 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


now opened up to her ; she saw society in a different 
way from anything she had known ; the possibilities of 
existence spread themselves out before her, and, above 
all, the urgent need of being better educated thrust it- 
self upon her. 

Arrangements were made, and she prosecuted her 
studies with unremitting energy and unabating zeal un- 
til both in literary branches and in music she was the 
peer of any. 

About this time there was a call through the news- 
papers for the Lourline heirs. Her mother’s brother had 
died in California leaving a vast fortune, and Charity 
was found to be the only living heir to the large inheri- 
tance. 

The little cottage was disposed of, and they moved 
up town into more commodious quarters. Charity was 
received in the first circles, and many admirers sought 
her hand. Charity and her father had made no effort 
to keep her life’s history a secret, and it was generally 
known that she bore the name of Charity Parton with 
honor. 

Four years had gone by, and Charity had developed 
into a peerless woman, commanding and graceful in ap- 
pearance. Her father looked with great pride on his 
treasures. Little Lourline, with her clear-cut features, 
long, golden curls, and heavenly blue eyes, was a model 
for a painter. 

Charity was now able to have one of her fondest 
wishes carried out, the removal of her mother’s remains 
to L — , and their interment in the cemetery. A fine 
monument was erected to her memory, and now Charity 
felt that every trace that bound her to the old life at 
Plantville was removed. 


ONLY A TIE 


21 


With Hope it was different. He had no little, child- 
ish prattler to make life sweet for him, and his being 
torn away from those dearest to him severed his life in 
two. He grew into a cold, cynical man, loving no one, 
but rather hating himself. Back, back, his mind would 
wander to the mountain cabin, and again he would see 
Charity in all her girlish beauty coming down the moun- 
tain path to meet him ; and Lourline, the tie that bound 
them together, oh ! she swept his heart-strings as noth- 
ing had ever done — and this was only a fair-faced, 
sunny-haired child, yet the idol of Hope Carlton’s life. 
He thought, as the months passed by : “She has learned 
to talk now. I wonder if Charity has taught her to lisp 
my name?” and when the yr»ars had dragged wearily on, 
he wondered how his little Lourline looked, and such a 
longing to see his wife and child took possession of him. 
His health had been failing ever since his return to New 
York, and as a restorative they had traveled all over 
Europe. His mother had tried to marry him to girls 
of wealth, but all to no purpose. The last scheme she 
had laid was to wed him to a young lady not only of 
handsome endowments, but whose many good traits of 
character far out-valued her dowry. To this proposi- 
tion Hope, in mournful tones, said: 

“Mother, Miss Bainbridge is a true-hearted woman. 
You broke my heart years ago, so now I have no love to 
give her and I am sure I would not wrong her by word 
or deed. I may just as well tell you, I will never love 
any one but Charity Parton, and our little girl is the 
tie drawing me back to old Kentucky.” 

Mrs. Carlton realized at last that her son was not 
to be persuaded into any matrimonial alliance, and she 
ceased to urged him to taking a step so much against 


22 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


his better nature. She now saw in all its different phases 
the great mistake she had made. In order to carry out 
her lofty aspirations for her son, she had not only 
blighted his life and Charity’s, but had made her own 
life miserable, and it was telling on her in the saddened 
face and silver tresses that lay on her brow. Was re- 
morse doing its work in her heart? If not, why this 
change, and why did that picture of the grief-stricken 
woman clasping her babe to her bosom so often present 
itself, and why did Charity Parton’s words, “Vengeance 
is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” haunt her by 
day and by night? 

Hope’s health continued to grow worse, and now he 
was unable to leave his room. The physician said that 
it was some heart-sorrow, and beyond the province of 
medical science ; restoration could only be effected by 
removing the cause if that were possible. 

In his delirium, Hope begged for his wife and child. 
There came a day when the damp dew gathered on his 
brow, and they said he was nearing the river. Mr. Carl- 
ton, who had never been bitter toward Hope’s wife, sent 
a telegram to Plantville for Charity to come. It was 
forwarded to L — , and with great sorrow Charity read : 

“Hope is dying, come at once. 

U H. F. Carlton.” 

She turned ghastly pale and placed one hand on her 
heart as if to hush its wild throbbings, and with the 
other handed the telegram to her father. 

“Will you go?” he asked. 

“No, it would only make my life more desolate; he 
deserted me, and even in death I cannot go to him.” 
She could not understand how false Hope’s mother was, 
or how completely she ruled her household. 


ONLY A TIE 


23 


Hope was not dying as the telegram stated, al- 
though they believed him to be. His mother, thinking 
she would soon be left childless, sat by his bedside weep- 
ing. Oh ! how the wrongs of the past loomed up before 
her now, and how she longed to make some reparation, 
but it was too late. The physician had said if this 
heart-sorrow were removed he could recover. Had she 
not caused it? and now God was wreaking vengeance 
on her. She had killed her son, not at one fatal stroke, 
as she had broken Charity Partori’s heart, but by de- 
grees. Oh ! if they only would come in answer to the 
telegram, she prayed in her anguish. But what had be- 
come of them? Perhaps Charity was dead, too, and she 
was doubly a murderer. But the child. Might it not 
be living? She would institute a search at once. If 
only her son could survive till she might find them. 

Hope seemed conscious of his mother’s grief, and 
looking up sadly, he raised his hand and laid it lovingly 
in hers. This was the first caress he had given her since 
her trip to Plantville. It had seemed that love had died 
out of his life. Joy shone in his mother’s countenance 
as she said : 

“Tell me, my darling, what mother can do for you. 
Only tell me, and any wish of yours shall be granted.” 

“Charity,” he murmured, “and Lourline.” 

“We have sent for them,” she answered. 

A smile of happiness overspread his face and he 
clapped his hands in excess of joy. 

“If they do not come we will take you to them, 
God willing, my boy ; and you and your darlings shall 
be reunited.” 

“Oh, mother, mother!” and he twined his arms 
around her neck and put his mouth up to kiss her. 


24 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


From that moment he began to improve, although 
the disappointment was great when his wife and child 
came not in answer to the telegram ; and day after day 
he would ask if they had come. 

During his convalescence, Hope asked his mother, 
one day, to read from the Holy Scripture. He said : 

“I feel so much better, I believe I shall soon be well 
enough to start on our journey to Plantville. God has 
done great things for me, and I wish to hear his Holy 
Word.” 

Mrs. Carlton got the Bible and sat down by her 
son’s bedside. She opened the book at the nineteenth 
chapter of Matthew and her eyes fell on the sixth verse, 
and she silently read, “What therefore God hath joined 
together let not man put asunder.” She closed the sacred 
volume and sat as in deep thought. Hope, observing the 
pallor of her countenance, said : 

“Mother, you are not well. Put the Bible away 
and I will have you read for me sometime when you feel 
more like it. Your constant attention to me is wearing 
on you, and you need perfect rest now.” 

She did as her son requested, but those words, 
“What God hath joined together, let not man put 
asunder,” kept ringing in her ears. Was God speaking 
them to her through his sacred word? And why did 
the book open at that place of all others? Yes, they 
were for her ; she felt it in every fibre of her being. 
Had she not broken his command, had she not dared to 
put asunder what God had joined together? In deep 
repentance she sought God’s forgiveness, and he must 
have touched her heart with pardoning love, for of late 
such a sweet peace shone out in her face, and her one 
absorbing thought now was to devise plans for reuniting 


ONLY A TIE 


25 


the two she had so cruelly separated. So, as soon as 
Hope was able to travel, the three started for Plantville. 
The impatience of Mrs. Carlton and her son was very 
great throughout the whole journey, and they had many 
misgivings as to what the result would be. Would they 
find Charity and her child? And if they were success- 
ful in finding them, how would it all end? 

At last, Plantville appeared to view, and familiar 
scenes so dear to Hope spread out in beauty once more 
before him. Great was their surprise and bitter the 
disappointment when they learned that Mr. Parton no 
longer resided there. They were informed that he had 
removed to the city of L — soon after his daughter was 
deserted by her husband. “Deserted by her husband!” 
And this was the light in which he was held. Hope 
winced at the thought. Did Charity believe this too 
that he had deserted her of his own freewill? If so, 
could they effect a reconciliation? But there was little 
Lourline — was she not a tie to bind them together? Per- 
haps, as such, she would plead for him. 

* * * % * * 

Days drifted on, and to Charity no more tidings 
came from Hope. Two, three, and even six months had 
gone by and every day Charity found herself watching 
and waiting and listening for news from the one to whom 
she had given her first, her last, her only love. 

She was sitting by the open window one bright 
evening in June. As usual of late her thoughts were 
busy with the sweet long ago, when Hope filled all her life 
with sunshine. Was he living, or had his spirit crossed 
over into perfect rest. 

A carriage stopped at the gate and a lady came up 
the broad walk. Was there nothing in the proud step 


26 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


that caused her thoughts to revert to that morning when 
a carriage stopped at the mountain home? Ah! the 
cloud of mist hanging over the mountain peaks — that 
day of darkness all flitted before her mental vision. But 
there was a ring at the door-bell, and the servant ush- 
ered in a lady. 

Charity arose, but she did not recognize in the 
sad-faced woman, the proud, cruel Mrs. Carlton of five 
years ago. The lady stood for a moment abashed before 
the magnificent woman who rose to greet her. 

“Are you Mrs. Charity Carlton?” she asked trem- 
blingly. 

“I am Charity Parton,” she answered, as if proud 
of the very name. 

“You were Charity Carlton once, Hope Carlton’s 
w T ife,” she said. 

“Yes, until a woman, a Jezebel, came and robbed 
me of all that made life dear. No, not all, for I had 
little Lourline left me, and she was the only tie that 
bound me to life.” 

“If this woman, this Jezebel, should come back and 
plead for her son, would you forgive her? Would you 
take back your husband, Lourline’s father?” 

“Oh! do not ask me; I have tried to put away the 
old life from me, for he deserted me, deserted Charity 
Parton, the poor mountain girl, without even a good- 
bye, not even one kiss on which to feed her poor, famished 
heart. He sent his mother to heap curses on me. He sent 
her to break my heart. Oh, don’t ask me, for he deserted 
me, he deserted me. Branded ‘the deserted wife,’ I have 
had to live down the scorns and sneers of a cruel world.” 

“I am Hope Carlton’s mother, I am the Jezebel who 
so wronged you, and on bended knee I plead with you 


ONLY A TIE 


27 


to take him back. I am the only one to blame. I was 
ambitious for my son, and the thought that he had gone 
against my dearest wishes and married a poor, unknown 
mountain girl was more than my proud spirit could 
brook. Like a vulture, I pounced down on him una- 
wares. I suspected all was not right by his staying 
so contendedly away from us in that wild mountainous 
region, and my convictions were verified by a gossiping 
woman I met in the parlor at the hotel. She broke the 
news to me soon after my arrival and I resolved I would 
take his life’s blood before he should ever see you again. 
He was locked in his room asleep, and I had the key 
when I went to see you. He had entreated me to allow 
him to go to his wife and child and all night he paced the 
floor like a madman. When I returned from my mission 
to the mountain cabin I found him still sleeping. He 
awoke soon after, but my bright, beautiful, affectionate 
boy was gone, and in his stead was a dazed listless crea- 
ture whom I carried to New York. When he recovered 
from this he was never the same toward me nor to any 
one except his father. His one love was Charity Par- 
ton, and if she casts him off now I fear the result will 
be fatal.” 

Charity was tremulous with emotion and great tear- 
drops rolled down her cheeks. 

“He deserted me, and you broke my heart,” she 
kept repeating. She stood clasping little Lourline’s 
hand in hers, while the child looked on wondering what 
it all meant. But there was a footstep on the veranda, 
in the hall, a footstep she had listened to years ago. 
Hope Carlton entered; there was a glad light in his 
eyes — all the love of a lifetime shone there, and, open- 
ing his arms, he said in a voice tremulous with love : 


28 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“Charity, Charity, my wife, my only love, will you 
come?” 

And, forgetting little Lourline, forgetting every- 
thing but that Hope Carlton, her husband, stood before 
her in the old love that she knew, she dropped the child’s 
hand and went to her rightful place. Hope Carlton 
folded his brave, strong arms around her, not the boyish 
lover-husband now, but a man with a heart and will 
that all on earth could not break. 

Oh, the tears, the kisses of joy ! Mrs. Carlton stole 
out softly and went to her carriage and to her hotel; the 
place was too sacred for her. 

The evening passed noislessly on, twilight shadows 
gathered, and still the two sat by the open window with 
little Lourline on her father’s knee. 

Mr. Parton came in, and hearing voices wondered 
who was with Charity. She heard her father coming, 
and linking her arm in Hope’s, she said: 

“Oh, father, my husband has come; Hope has come, 
and he has been true to me all these years.” 

And Mr. Parton, throwing his arms around each, 
said : 

“God bless you, my children.” 

The following morning Mr. Carlton and wife drove 
around to Charity’s home. When Charity met Mr. Carl- 
ton, and he grasped her hand, and she looked into his 
eyes, so like Hope’s, she felt that if Mrs. Carlton had 
been like her husband, she and Hope would have been 
spared all this sorrow. 

We have come to say good-bye,” said Mrs. Carlton, 
“for we leave for home in an hour or two. I wanted to 
know that you had forgiven me,” she said, through her 
tears, to Charity. “God has forgiven me, and if I feel 


ONLY A TIE 


29 


that I have the forgiveness of you and Hope, I can die 
in peace.” 

“We forgive you freely,” said Charity. “It is such 
happiness to be re-united, and God is so good to bring 
my husband back to me I could bear no ill will to any 


JOE'S SWEETHEART. 


A LIFE’S HISTORY. 


I 

“Yes, Joseph, my boy, she went back on you square, — 

Now be sober, old friend, don’t get on a ‘tare,’ 

And the story I’ll tell from beginning to end, 

Though a sad one as ever was told or was penned. 

The girl, you remember, was fair as a dove — 

But who of us forget the girl that we love? 

Some men in the lonely grey ruins of their heart 
Treasure an idol of which life seems a part, — 

Your pardon — a tear? Ah ! that whispers at last 
Of a memory sacred to you and the past. 

Well, the girl, though she loved you, was not treated right, 
And a life full of sunshine became dark as night ; 

Left alone, all in widow’s weeds, mournful and sad, — 

But the story is premature — that is too bad ! 

Ah ! I see in your face both sorrow and joy, 

And you, doubtless, anticipate the future, my boy. 

A widow, by Jove, there’s a chance for you yet, 

As I said, once before, Joe, we men don’t forget. 

Life is ‘a war with the false and the true,’ 

We’re off with the old and on with the new, 

Oft leaving bright hopes to corrode and to rust, 

And burying our hearts’ loves low in the dust; 

But they, like Nemesis, still keep on our track 
And force us to turn round and give a look back 
To a past that is blotted and all stained with tears — 

30 


JOE’S SWEETHEART 


31 


A past that will haunt us through all coming years. 

That tear, — was it not your Nemesis, friend Joe? — 

A reminder that you had caused a heart woe? 

You were poor, but were proud, and the old folks did wrong, 
And you gave up the girl as though a mere song. 

And the curtain then fell on your life’s drama, boy. 

She had played with your heart as a child with a toy, — 

So you thought — but some women love fervent and strong, 
Let me tell you they love through right and through wrong. 
And so this girl loved, broken-hearted, yet true; 

But she gathered the fragments, and buried them, too, 
Clear out of sight when the new lover came, 

The lover who’d wealth, position and fame. 

So her hand was bestowed, but her heart was laid low, 

And buried her hopes were, and all for you, Joe. 

Now the rest is soon told, and I hasten to close 
The tale of a life flecked with sunshine and woes, 

And a life of mad pleasure, a life full of sin, 

A life full of heartaches, then death closed all in. 

****** 

Back again to the home that had given her birth, 

With a future o’er-burdened and no room for mirth, 

Our heroine went, over shadowed and sad, 

And there you will find her, Joseph, my lad. 

So my story is ended, but not as it should; 

You a sequel could make to it, Joe, if you would. 

Go home to your first love— the love of your heart — 

And say she shall have in your future a part,— 

A part that no woman on earth’s broad domain 
Has ever shared but her, or shall share again. 

Ah ! Joseph, your face was a panoramic scene, 

With sunshine and shadow and rain in between, 

But the sunset has faded, a morning all new, 

Resplendent and golden, is dawning on you. 

Back to the dreams that lay dead in the past, 

Joseph, you’ll go ere life’s sun sets at last. 

And bind up the bruised heart— the heart rent in twain— 
Then I’ll know that my story has not been in vain. 


32 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


II 

Well, Joseph, my boy, you’re crippled I see, 

And walking with crutches. Now what can it be 
That has caused such a mishap you to befall? 

And you are walking with crutches? Now Joe is that all? 
Why turn away? Look me straight in the eye ; 

What else boy, has happened? Why heave such a sigh? 
Has she, of all women, again played you false? 

Ah ! Joseph, these maids lead us men a gay waltz. 

They flatter, they chatter, they woo with a smile, 

With one glance of the eye full of love just the while. 

Like the will-o’-the-wisp, through marsh and through glade y 
We follow, still follow, through sunshine and shade, 
Entangled, ensnared, in the meshes they weave, 

Learning too late that fair maids can deceive. 

But ’tis needless you tell — a shadow may be 
Across your great heart, like a wave of the sea; 

You staked your whole life for w r eal or for woe, 

And nothing but darkness came to you, Joe. 

Now, each of us trials, in this life, attend, 

But such trials as yours, Joe, make of us men. 

It is gold that comes from the crucible gold, 

Refin’d by the test, purified for the mold. 

’Tis the crucible of life in which we are tried, 

What matters it, then, if vanity and pride 
Are found to be dross! But we’ll pass this by; 

There's an after-life, Joe, you may reach if you try. 

If a hand’s upraised, ’tis the hand of God, 

And it’s he that says, ‘Pass under the rod.’ 

And your crutches; my boy, they serve to divide 
This life from the life on the other side. 

But you are silent, my friend. Was my prophecy vain? 
Were the old folks obstinate? Trouble again? 

Now, out with it lad, keep nothing back, 

And my friendship and sympathy you never shall lack ; 
Your face you avert, in your eyes there are tears, 

Ah ! Joe, you aw r aken my very worst fears. 

I thought the ordeals that she had passed through, 

Had purified, strengthened, and made her anew, 


JOE’S SWEETHEART 


33 


But these crutches, I fear, she now makes a cross; 

If so, then, my boy, don’t count her a loss; 

For a woman whose soul is fashioned of God 

Would stoop down and kiss where these lame feet had trod ; 

She would hug to her bosom these crutches of wood, 

And whisper, l It only occurred for our good, 

Not us such misfortune shall ever divide, 

And my rightful place is now by your side.’ 

For such love as this, boy, who wouldn’t be lame? 

And yet love that is love is love just the same. 

She’ll do it, she’ll do it; I’ll never, by Jove, 

Go back on her trueness, though bitterness strove 
For the mast’ry a while, as I gazed on your face, 

And failed not your thoughts with my thoughts to trace, 
You may trust her, old friend, and all will be right 
As surely as day succeeds the dark night. 

Now Joseph, good-bye. When I see you again 
I believe you will be the happiest of men. 

You can trust her — she’s made of the right kind of stuff — 
And what I have said has been quite enough 
To soothe your emotions. Believe me, my friend, 

Her love was yours once— ’tis yours to the end. 

Ill 

Ah! Joseph, old friend, ’tis indeed a surprise, 

To meet you again ’neath Kentucky’s fair skies ; 

Two years have gone by on time’s rolling tide, 

And I see you have laid your crutches aside. 

So seldom I meet with old friends of the past 
That ’tis with great pleasure I now your hand clasp. 

How fares it with you? The same as of old? 

Are no silver threads hidden yet ’mong the gold? — 

Nor the footprints that time has bequeathed unto you 
A warning your reward will erelong be due? 

As we look o’er the years gone to waste and mis-spent, 

Do we sigh that so short was the period lent 
To do and undo every deed that was done 
Before our career had its setting of sun? 

But such is existence, all death and decay, — 


34 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


To-morrow we’ll smile o’er the grave of to-day. 

But tell me, my boy, has the world used you well? 

Has your bark had smooth sailing? What! nothing to tell? 
You will find me the same true friend as of yore — 

And my heart to you ever a free, open door,— 

A kind of receptacle for life’s odds and ends, 

With room for the sorrows that God on us sends. 

Has your cup been filled up with joy, to the brim? 

And do you forget to give praises to him 
Who watches o’er all, both great and both small, 

And forgets not to mark e’en the sparrows fall? 

Not married? And why not wedded to-day? 

Has the tempter again come, and led you astray? 

You are silent, old friend, is there naught to explain? 

And after all, Joe, was my prophecy vain? 

Stood she not by you when troublous times came? 

Loving with love that was love just the same? 

Alas! there was trouble; I see in your face, 

A heart-sorrow time alone can efface. 

You gave back the vows so sacredly made, 

And I fear you’ve full heavy a penalty paid. 

Low in spirits and purse you gave the girl up 
And for surcease of sorrow went back to the cup. 

Oh, heavens ! that such should now be your fate ; 

But it’s gone with the past and forever too late 
For amends, save through anguish and heart-rending tears. 
But we’ll hope that ere long, in the fast coming years, 
Sweet trust in the Master will bring peace to your soul 
That is worth more to you than fine silver and gold. 

But you are no exception, we men are all weak, 

We yield to temptation, our ruin to seek, 

Our manhood refuses to assert its full sway, 

And the good that is in us seems all gone for aye. 

But God is above us, he does not forget, 

And a spark of the old life is left in us yet. 

With talents all dormant, and going to rust, 

Oh ! Joseph, you’ll be what God wills you must, 

A man of his image, and formed by his hand, 

Exerting good influence all over the land 
With a little hand beek’ning you upward and on, 


JOE’S SWEETHEART 


35 


Dear Joseph, there’s much by you yet to be won. 

And all the good deeds and the great man you make, 

You will feel was accomplished just for her sake. 

And what is the news, — what news; did you say? 

Ah ! more’n you can bear this bright month of May. 

The home folks are well, and are all just the same, 

And seem happy even to mention your name. 

The young folks are quiet — a little subdued— 

And few are the maidens now being wooed, 

But the fairest is won — her lover was Death ; 

Kissed down are her eyelids, and stilled is her breath, 

And, folded, her little hands lie on her breast, 

For your sweetheart, Joseph, has gone to her rest. 

A new grave in the cemetery’s wreathed with damp flowers, 
Wet with tear-drops of loving heart-showers. 

By the side of the husband the young wife was laid, 

And in your heart, Joseph, a grave, too, was made. 

What! heart-breaking sobs from a man once so strong! 

Oh, Joseph, my boy, I know you did wrong, — 

But your old friend is by you with eyes full of tears, 

And knows that she loved you through all these long years. 
She sent you good-bye, said: ‘Meet her up there, 

Where the heart’s free from sorrow and knows not a care.’ 
She said that she loved you, was true to life’s end; 

What more could you wish from a dying friend? 

I know that you loved her, and she you will miss, 

But, Joseph, I dreamed not of such love as this. 

Yet in all of life’s sorrows there is nothing like death, 

It takes from us loved ones and hushes their breath ; 

Their chair is all vacant, home broken and lone, 

And all that is left us is our past to bemoan. 

But bear your loss bravely and do not give down, 

For ‘the greater the cross is, the brighter the crown.’ 

She’s led the way upward for you and for me, 

And in heaven, my boy, your idol you’ll see.” 


HOW MRS. GRAFTON BUILT UP THE 
PLAINVILLE CHURCH. 


Mrs. Grafton was a prominent member of the 
Plainville church, and a very enthusiastic worker in 
the Baptist cause. She would allow no opportunity to 
pass wherein a word could be said or a deed done that 
she hoped might bear rich fruits. If she heard that a 
Baptist family had moved into the neighborhood she 
thought nothing of driving several miles to call on them, 
inform them of her excellent pastor, the dates of differ- 
ent church services, etc., always ending with a cordial 
invitation for the new-comers to cast their lot with the 
Baptists of Plainville. It was during a call of this kind 
that she was afraid she was a better Baptist than she 
was a Christian, by which she meant, no doubt, that in 
her zeal for the church, looking after the old members 
and keeping them revived, bringing in new ones, etc., 
she was likely to neglect her own spiritual growth. 

Notwithstanding Mrs. Grafton expressed herself in 
this way, everybody believed her to be a true, conscien- 
tious Christian, and had great confidence in her religion; 
for they knew that her zeal was equaled by her liberal- 
ity, and that with her to say and to do* went hand-in- 
hand. True, she made no effort at display in these 
matters, but such gifts as hers could not easily be kept 
hidden. Had she not only recently given five hundred 

86 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


•37 


dollars to the Sharon College library? And a Christmas 
gift of twenty-five dollars to her pastor was only an or- 
dinary occurrence, while of her private charities full 
many a widow and orphan of Plainville could testify in 
words of warmest gratitude. 

But, despite the best efforts of Mrs. Graf ton, the Plain- 
ville church did not prosper as she had longed to see it, 
and sometimes she almost despaired of ever seeing that 
Pentecostal outpouring for which she had so earnestly 
prayed. 

To-day she felt sorely grieved, and, being alone, 
this apathetic condition of the church was ever before 
her. Brother Harrington, their beloved pastor, had just 
closed a series of meetings at Plainville, but alas ! with 
the same sad results as he had year after year — no con- 
versions, no additions to the church. “He had preached 
the Gospel good and true,” and did it strike home to no 
hearts? Was Plainville exempt from sin? Ah! no in- 
deed. If ever a town needed a shaking up of the dry 
bones in Israel it was this, and yet, in deep sorrow Over 
his ill success each year the pastor would resign, saying 
there were others who could do more good here than he, 
but the members still clung to him and would not ac- 
cept his resignation. 

Now, Brother Harrington had no warmer friend in 
his church than Mrs. Grafton, yet she knew that some 
obstacle lay in the way of the pastor’s success at this 
place. There was trouble somewhere, and what was it? 
she asked herself over and over. Did it find a lodging 
place among the members, or was it with the pastor, or 
both? No, it could not be with the pastor, for he had 
done his duty if ever a pastor did, and how could he 
cause the cold indifference of the members and the 


38 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


people? “I would give all I possess,” thought she, “to 
know the real cause of the stagnant state of our church, 
and to be the instrument in removing the cause.” She 
was startled from her reverie by the ringing of the door- 
bell and the servant’s ushering in Miss Carrie Hamilton, 
a young lady with whom Mrs. Grafton had recently 
formed quite a friendship, being the daughter of an old 
time friend; but little did she think that through her 
she would find the solution to this perplexing problem. 

“I am glad to see you this morning, Carrie,” said 
Mrs. Grafton. “Pray be seated and administer your sooth- 
ing powers to my drooping spirits. I have been lost in 
thought for the last hour, and your ringing at the door- 
bell aroused me like one from a dream. I have been 
puzzling my brain over church matters and wishing I 
could do some good in the world. I am sure I have the 
will if I could only find the way.” 

“I do not trouble myself much about church mat- 
ters,” answered Miss Hamilton, “there are other things 
of greater weight with me. I just accept the inevitable 
in regard to church affairs and go ahead. And, as to 
doing some good in the world, I leave that to those 
better suited to the purpose. I know I like to make 
hearts happy, and I never wish to bring sorrow to any 
one, but I fear the art of doing good is lost with me, or 
when the day of reckoning comes my mite will be very 
small. I do not feel that I especially belong anywhere, 
and, of course, haven’t much interest in church mat- 
ters.” 

“I thought you were a member of the C.P. church,” 
said Mrs. Grafton, “and am very much surprised to 
hear you speak so lightly of such things.” 

“I have never united with any church,” she re- 
plied. 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


89 


“What Sunday-3ehool do yon attend?” 

“I go to the C. P.,” answered Miss Hamilton. 

“Is not your mother a member of the Baptist church? 
And are you not a Baptist in principle?” questioned 
Mrs. Grafton. 

“Yes, my mother is a member of the Baptist church, 
but my brother and sisters all joined the C. P. church, 
and I — well you see I felt sorry for them at the C. P. 
church; they had no organist and so few members.” 

“Yes, but if you area Baptist in belief,” replied 
Mrs. Grafton, “you are using your influence against 
your principles. Be it ever so little, each one exerts 
some influence, and you are giving yours to a church 
you do not believe in. Now, why is it you do not unite 
-with the Baptist church and attend our Sunday-school? 
My husband is the superintendent, and, I am sure, would 
give you a hearty welcome. Will you not make up 
your mind to do what you know is right, ’ ’ she continued, 
“and come to us? You have been happily converted, 
you know and believe that baptism by immersion is the 
true mode. To remain in the world after your sins 
have been forgiven, after you have been w T ashed whiter 
than snow, have been purified by the cleansing blood of 
the crucified Saviour, is to slight his greatest blessings, 
is to go further and further away from him until the 
still small voice that once brought sweetest music to 
your ears is unheeded. No restraining influences are 
throwm around you, temptations come and alluring 
voices are heard until you yield, and then you are found 
in the ball-room and at the card-table. You console 
your conscience, that is far from being at ease, perhaps, 
by saying that you are not a member of the church and 
you are breaking no rules; and yet God’s precious hand 


40 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


has touched your heart, you have been thrilled with his 
divine love, and do you think he looks with pleasure to 
find one of his children in these halls of sin? The 
church serves as a safe-guard. It shows which side you 
are on, whose cause you have espoused. The Saviour 
says, ‘If you love me keep my commandments,’ and if 
you have joined the church you have obeyed and are en- 
deavoring to obey him in this respect. You are leading 
toward the right instead of in the opposite direction ; 
your influence is for good, and you can but be conscious 
of the approving smiles of the loving Father. Then the 
good that we do in His service will not go for naught, 
but we will live in hearts even after we have crossed 
over the silent border, while the recording angel will 
not forget to put to our account all our good works for 
the Master. Now will you not unite with our church?” 
persisted Mrs. Grafton. 

“If — ” and Carrie Hamilton hesitated, “if you had 
a different pastor I might join the church,” she mur- 
mured. 

“What! Surely you do not object to our dear 
Brother Harrington, who has served so long and so 
well?” asked Mrs. Grafton. 

“Oh! he seems so cold, so distant,” Carrie re- 
sponded. 

“If you knew him aright you would not speak so dis- 
paragingly of him. I think a great deal of him ; he was 
so kind to visit me during my recent illness ; and it was 
at a meeting conducted by him that I received the glo- 
rious blessing. I shall never forget his words to me 
showing his perfect faith and the great comfort they 
brought to my broken heart. He came to me at the 
altar when all seemed hidden in darkness and said : ‘My 


THE PLAIN VILLE CHURCH 


41 


friend, I believe God will bless you ; yes, I know he will 
bless you.’ To me they were the sweetest words I had 
ever heard, and when the blessing did come it was to 
Brother Harrington I wanted to tell of my new-found 
happiness. Perhaps you are prejudiced against him, 
Carrie,” said Mrs. Grafton. 

“I don’t know,” she answered wearily, “and still 
I know he has done good and must be good, or he would 
not have remained here as long as he has.” 

“Why is it that you do not know him better? Does 
he never visit your house?” Mrs. Grafton asked. 

“Visit our house?” and Carrie Hamilton looked up 
in great surprise. “Why I never remember seeing him 
at our house in all my life.” 

“Do you ever invite him?” Mrs Grafton asked. 

“I would as soon think of inviting an iceberg,” was 
the answer. 

“Well, how is he to know that he would receive a 
hearty welcome?” persisted Mrs. Grafton, “or any wel- 
come at all?” 

“My mother is a member of his church, and it is 
his duty to watch after and visit his members, and if it 
is an invitation he is waiting for, he will never get it 
from me. I think the fact that my mother is a Baptist 
is a sufficient guaranty for his visits, if only once a year. 
But he belongs to the wealthy,” she said scornfully, “he 
never forgets to visit them.” 

“And they invite him,” said Mrs. Grafton. “Some 
natures differ widely from others. Brother Harrington 
is very modest, very, retiring in his nature. He is so fear- 
ful of intruding or of happening in at an opportune mo- 
ment. While, on the other hand, Brother Camden would 
never suppose that one of his pastoral visits had stopped 


42 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


the busy housewife at her washing tub and thrown her an 
hour late with her work, or that he had stayed until it was 
past time to put on the boiled dinner that she had an- 
ticipated, or w T hile she was being strengthened and up- 
lifted by his comforting words the bread was souring 
and spoiling from too much rising, or perhaps burning 
on the stove. He would go, in his own cheery w'ay, per- 
fectly unconscious that he had in any way caused any 
inconvenience. And the sister who had caught the 
cheerfulness and divine influence of her pastor would go 
singing to her duties, not seeming to care if she had 
been put back with her work. And she would wonder 
why Brother Camden’s visits always seemed to fill the 
house with sunshine, and even her husband said his 
work seemed lighter. ‘It is so pleasant, ’they would say, 
‘to have him call in this way and make himself one of 
us, and it will be so long before he comes again — a 
whole month.’ But we are not responsible for what is 
bred in us and becomes the growth of years. To some ex- 
tent we can correct the jagged edges that come unpleas- 
antly in contact with the world, but we do not always 
know what the masses like and dislike in us. Brother 
Harrington cannot help that ; his nature, his disposition, 
is unlike to Brother Camden’s. Now, for instance, if 
Brother Camden had a sister in his church who did not 
hear well, and he had made a good point in his sermon that 
hejwould like for her to hear, he would think nothing of 
addressing her in the midst of his discourse and say, “Sis- 
ter Porter, did you hear that?” While it might be embar- 
rassing to the sister, Brother Camden would think we 
should not be ashamed or sensitive about any affliction God 
sends on us, and he really wanted the sister to hear what 
he had to aay. Brother Harrington would put his head 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


43 


in the fire, so to speak, before he would address any one in 
this manner. So you see there must be a happy medium 
in everything, and while we may admire Brother Camden 
most for some things, there are other qualities we like 
best in Brother Harrington. As to his visits, he per- 
haps thinks if his members do not go to hear him preach 
they would not care for his visits.” 

“But how are we to know him only as a cold, in- 
different, distant man if he never comes about ns? How 
can we be otherwise than prejudiced? I think of preach- 
ers as of teachers — it is their duty to visit their mem- 
bers, their patrons, cultivate the friendship of the 
younger members of the family and teach them to look 
upon him as their leader, their shepherd.” 

“Still ministers, like teachers, want to know that 
they are appreciated. We are all human enough for 
that,” said Mrs. Grafton. 

“That is very true,” said Carrie, “but if I were a 
minister I would try to look to God all the time. I 
would put the world away from me and forget self, 
knowing it was the Master’s cause in which I was en- 
gaged. The Bible says, ‘Pure and undefiled religion is 
this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their afflictions, 
and to keep himself unspotted from the world.’ Now 
Brother Harrington preaches this, but he does not 
practice it.” 

“I am very sorry, Carrie, that you are so prejudiced 
against Brother Harrington, but I hope I may yet bring 
things around all right, and you will come back to us.” 

“Really,” said Carrie, “I had no idea I was making 
such a long call, and instead of soothing your drooping 
spirits, my dear Mrs. Grafton, I fear I have ruffled your 
feelings.” 


44 


KFNTUCKY FOLKS 


“Oh! no, not at all!” replied Mrs. Grafton, “but I 
was just thinking that I have a book I would like to 
have you read. It is a new copy of a very old book, the 
title is ‘Grace Truman ; ’ if you will read that, ” she said, 
as Miss Hamilton rose to go, “and do not come out a 
Baptist, ready and willing to unite with the church, I 
shall be sadly disappointed.” 

“I will read it with pleasure,” she answered, “but 
will not promise, under existing circumstances, to unite 
with the church.” 

After Miss Hamilton was gone Mrs. Grafton fell to 
thinking. How strange that the problem which had 
perplexed her so sorely had so easy a solution, since she 
now saw it in the light presented by Carrie Hamilton. 
She knew the history of Mrs. Hamilton’s life, how she 
had drunk the bitter dregs of sorrow, brought on through 
no fault of hers; and Brother Harrington, who knew it 
all, had never gone to her house to strengthen her with 
words of consolation and Christian sympathy. How 
forcibly the thought of it brought to mind Mrs. Grafton’s 
own experience; how in the long ago she, too, bad had 
the same bitter feelings against Brother Harrington and 
the Plainville church, that Carrie Hamilton was now 
nourishing. Had not a dark cloud of anguish lain on 
her threshold at one time, and who of the members of 
the Plainville church came to give her a word of sympa- 
thy? None ; not even Brother Harrington. But that had 
been years ago, and she had buried all those bitter feel- 
ings with the dead past, and had taken up life anew;and 
if any one ever knew of the struggle that had been in 
her heart ere right triumphed, they did not learn it from 
Mrs. Grafton, for no one was now more in fellowship 
with the church, or had the interest of the church more at 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


45 


heart than she. So she resolved when Brother Harring- 
ton’s regular appointment came around, to give him an 
insight into the state of affairs. Mrs. Grafton was also a 
strong supporter of Brother Harrington, and their house 
was ever their pastor’s home. At last the long looked- 
for day arrived and Brother Harrington went home with 
Mrs. Grafton to dinner. After the meal was served they 
all repaired to the cozy sitting-room for a social after- 
noon, Mrs. Grafton ere long introducing the subject up- 
permost in her mind. 

“Well, Brother Harrington,” she said, “the old year 
is drawing to a close, and I always look with sadness on 
his dying out, for fear with his going you, too, will leave 
us for newer fields. After the unsuccessful result of 
our meetings I know you are more discouraged than ever, 
and perhaps, have your mind fully made up to send in 
your resignation, but this I hope you will not do. You 
have so endeared yourself to us all during your long pas- 
torate that I do not believe the church would consent to 
give you up.” 

“Yes, Sister Grafton,” he replied, “that is my in- 
tention. I do not feel that I am doing any good here, 
and I must try a new field of labor. The church seems 
to grow colder each year, and where the trouble lies I 
have not the remotest idea. I am almost in despair as 
to what course to pursue. No one could have the in- 
terest of the church more at heart than I ; no one has 
prayed more earnestly for the removal of the obstacle in 
the way of its success than I, its pastor. But it seems 
that all my efforts have proved fruitless, and I feel that if 
I am causing this coldness, this indifference on the part 
of the members, it is best that I should go and leave the 
field clear for another. So far as their affection for me is 


46 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


concerned, it is true that among those with whom I have 
been associated it has been such that I fear that it is 
this that has influenced me to retain this charge year 
after year against better judgment.” 

“And yet, Brother Harrington,” replied the good sis- 
ter, “if you did not know of this affection on the part of 
the members to whom you refer, I cannot agree with you 
that there was ever a time when you ought to have sev- 
ered your pastoral relations with us. We have needed 
the sound doctrine you have preached us, the strong, 
practical and uplifting sermons you have delivered, and 
your encouraging and soul-cheering presence around our 
firesides. And though the ingatherings have not been 
so great as we had hoped for, and a large part of our 
membership do seem indifferent about their attendance 
at church, I believe the time is not far distant when all 
obstacles will be removed and you will feel that your 
work has not been in vain. There are many things that 
I have troubled over ; much I wish to discuss with you, 
and many questions I wish to ask, for this has lain near 
my heart a long while, and I believe that a careful in- 
vestigation will reveal the difficulty which, though to 
you may seem insurmountable, will readily yield to the 
proper treatment. You know the Bible says the Good 
Shepherd knows His sheep and they know His voice— and 
pardon me, Brother Harrington, but I have wondered 
if you know each one of your fold?” 

“Well, Sister Grafton, you know the membership is 
right large, and they are scattered around a good deal, 
sol do not suppose I know them all ; I know all the 
most prominent ones, I presume.” 

“Don’t you think it would be a good plan to give 
a call to each one of them as often as possible to see how 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


47 


they are getting along, to encourage them, to strengthen 
and comfort them?” 

“You see, Sister Grafton, I never stay long enough 
for that when I come to fill my appointments; and if 
my members stay away from church time after time I 
conclude that they do not care for me nor wish to hear 
me preach, and so I do not trouble myself about them.” 

“But do you never hunt up such members, find out 
the true cause of their absence from church, whether it 
is sickness or discouragements, or simply carelessness, 
and try to remedy the fault and get them back?” 

“Really, Sister Grafton, you ought to have been a 
preacher, you would have made things lively. I used to 
hunt up my missing members, but now I haven’t the 
time; besides, if they have made up their minds not to 
come back to church all the visits I could make would 
not bring them back.” 

Mrs.Grafton felt aggrieved to hear Brother Harring- 
ton speak so indifferently of what lay so near her heart, 
and she determined to still push forward matters until 
he saw things just as they were. 

“Did you ever visit Mrs. Hamilton?” she asked. 
“You know she is a widow and has had her share of 
sorrow.” 

“I do not think I was ever in her house. You know 
when the C. P. church sprang up here her children fol- 
lowed the drift and joined that church, and with her 
approval too, I suppose, for I heard that she said she 
had rather they would join a live C. P. church than a 
dead Baptist church ; and since that time I have lost 
sight of her.” 

“Brother Harrington,” said Mrs. Grafton, slightly 
warming up, “you are our pastor and have been for 


48 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


years, and we love you as we could never love another. 
You are much older than I am, and I know I am not 
competent to advise you, but will you believe me to be 
your friend and not become offended at anything I may 
advise or suggest?” 

“Of course I will not become offended at you, Sister 
Grafton ; always feel at liberty to say what you please 
to me.” 

“Would you believe that your coldness, your indiff- 
erence, as they term it, is driving members to another 
church?” 

“Surely you do not mean it?” and Brother Harring- 
ton looked aghast. 

“I certainly mean every word of it,” said Mrs. 
Grafton, “and knowing you as I do, I am determined they 
shall see you in your true light. But believe me, Brother 
Harrington, if you do seem cold and indifferent to 
members of our church, I do not think the blame of this 
should rest wholly with you, for I can clearly see how 
that through our great love for you certain of us have 
monopolized your society to such an extent that you 
may unwittingly have neglected your social obligations 
to others equally as much entitled to your genial presence 
as we, and I, for one, am willing to take my share of 
the blame and to set about to remedy the matter.” Then 
she told him of her conversation with Carrie Hamilton. 

“Now don’t you see, Sister Grafton, that it is best 
that I go away and leave the field to another?” and 
Brother Harrington sighed heavily. 

“No, indeed,” answered Mrs. Grafton. “Have 
you forgotten those beautiful lines by Miss Ellen L. Sale, 
published in the Western Recorder, and which we so 
much admired? Let me repeat them for you. I will 
begin with the third stanza: 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH 


49 


“Then let us not blanch from the field, my friend ; 

Tho’ ’tis hard, let us rally to duty; 

Tho’ we never may gather the fruitage here, 

Tho’ never a sign nor a word of cheer 
May greet our eyes or fall on the ear, 

Yet surely a picture of beauty, 

“Is sometimes enwrought by the soul, my friend, 
Stamped on the reverse of life’s pages— 

That will goldenly glow in eternity’s sun 
When the hands are folded, when the race is run, 

And we hear the sentence on work well done 
That shall echo down endless ages. 

“So take up your life work once more, my friend, 
And sow precious seeds, even weeping; 

The Lord of the harvest, who sendeth the rain 
And sunshine and dew to quicken the grain, 

Has promised ‘in joy you shall come again,’ 

Bringing rich sheaves from the reaping.” 

“Indeed, Sister Grafton, those words are beautiful, 
the sentiments are true and very strengthening, and 
ought to nerve a fainter heart than mine for the battle 
of life,” said Brother Harrington. 

“Just so,” said the sister; “now who has sown the 
good seeds here? and who should reap the harvest? I 
propose that you stay and reap what you have sowm. 
Also turn over a new leaf and see if it does not work 
like a charm.” 

“What do you propose to put on that new leaf?” 
he asked. 

“First, I propose that you make your home here. 
What church have you that has employed you so long 
as this? We need you here ; here lies your work. Come 
here and have your round of calls, make your members 
know you and love you and look forward to your calls 
as oases in the great desert of life.” 

“I had not thought of moving here, Sister Grafton, 
but I believe, after all, this might be the place for me. 


60 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


I begin to realize more fully that in order to reach the 
hearts of the people you must know them around their 
own firesides.” 

“That is just it, Brother Harrington, and I am a firm 
believer in the maxim, that a house-going pastor makes 
a church-going people, and to begin with, we will call at 
Mrs. Hamilton’s this evening. Without your permission 
I have already sent word we were coming, and I want 
you to cultivate the acquaintance of the young people ; 
they have great influence.” 

“Iam in your hands to do with as you like,” and 
turning to Mr. Grafton, he said, “does she talk you in- 
to things this way, Brother Grafton?” 

“She has a will of her own,” laughingly replied the 
husband, who had been an interested listener. 

So they went to Mrs. Hamilton’s, and the evening 
was spent so pleasantly that when they arose to go tea 
was announced, and Mrs. Hamilton and Carrie wouldn’t 
take a denial. After tea they had music, different sub- 
jects were discussed, and when time for saying good- 
bye came, Brother Harrington declared that he didn’t 
know when he had spent so pleasant an evening, to 
which Carrie and her mother replied that they, too, had 
enjoyed it very much. On the way home Brother 
Harrington spoke in very complimentary terms of the 
mother and daughter. 

This was only the beginning. Mrs. Grafton went 
with Brother Harrington to see the various members who 
had been neglected in his pastoral visits ; the ice was 
broken, and the next month the minister went alone, 
and so continued until each member had been visited. 
Ere long they began to look forward to his calls and 
wonder when he would come again. Great was the in- 


THE PLAINVILLE CHURCH. 


51 


terest when it was rumored that Brother Harrington had 
decided to move to Plainville, and when he came each 
one vied with his neighbor in trying to do their pastor 
a service. One must haul his coal for him, another must 
have the house in readinesss, another did not forget the 
larder, and still another remembered that Brother Har- 
rington’s horse and cow must needs be fed. Brother 
Harrington never before had such a happy home-coming, 
and in Plainville, too. A few months after Carrie Ham- 
ilton told Mrs. Grafton that she was perfectly delighted 
with Brother Harrington, and never grew tired of his 
preaching. 

A great revolution took place, not only in the church, 
but in the town of Plainville. Brother Harrington’s 
iciness had melted in the genial glow of friendship and 
love. The church took on a new life, old members came 
back, and Mrs. Grafton said it seemed like a new world. 

When again Brother Harrington held a series of meet- 
ings there was a rich gathering in of harvest, and when 
Carrie Hamilton went up to unite with the church Mrs. 
Grafton felt that her cup of happiness was filled to over- 
flowing. 

“I owe it all to you,” said Brother Harrington, 
grasping Mrs. Grafton’s hand in excess of joy when the 
meetings closed, “to you for showing me the way.” 

“Not to me,” she answered, “but to God, for mak- 
ing me the humble instrument in his hands.” 


OLD MEMORIES. 


Awakened by the Dedication of the New Baptist Church at Providence, Ky., 
June 14, 1891. 


’Tis dedication day, my friend, 

And folks are flocking, one and all, 

To fill the church so large and grand, 

In answer to the new hell’s call. 

And now they’ve left the dear old church, 
To it they’ve said their last good-bye, 

And there it stands so lone and sad, 

Its spire still pointing to the sky. 

They’ve built a spacious, new brick church, 
With cushioned pews, and carpets fine, 
With stained-glass windows, costly, too, 
Thro’ which the glorious light may shine. 
The organ is the grandest one 
In all the blessed country round, 

And voices in the chanting choir 

Will make the vaulted walls resound. 
They’re going to give the church to God; 
They’re decked out all so bright and gay; 

But as for me, my tears will come — 

Old memories round my heart will play. 

I look back to the past, my friend ; 

Our pastor then was young and strong; 
No silver threads were o’er his brow 
When first he came our flock among. 

52 


OLD MEMORIES 


53 


He’s served us more than twenty years, 
He’s preached the gospel, good and true, 

But now he’s left the dear old church 
To lead his flock into the new. 

Ah ! dear old church, how many scenes 
Of unmixed joy we’ve witnessed here ! 

And sad ones, too ; we’ve sometimes wept 
O’er faces cold and forms so dear. 

How many shouts of new-born souls 
Ascended hence to God’s high throne! 

How many here have plighted troth — 

How oft two hearts been here made one! 

’Twas in this house, this very house, 

The heavenly blessing came to me; 

And how these walls did glow with light 
That only a new-born soul can see! 

And how the preacher’s face did shine, 
And all that happy, happy throng! 

I tell you ’twas a glorious time 

Of shouting, praise, and sacred song ! 

The Methodists joined in with us, 

And staid Episcopalians, too; 

The Campbellites came to our aid, 

The hosts of Evil to subdue. 

Oh, how I love to think of it. 

That joyful, happy, blissful night! 

It makes my soul leap up to God 

And feel like taking wings of flight. 

And don’t you think I love this church — 
The old one — not the fine and new? 

But I guess the Lord will know me there, 
And love me in the cushioned pew. 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS. 


“Thar’s that gate agin, an’ it’s nothin’ but bang! 
bang! rap! rap! from morning till night. Well, I’ll 
sw’ar if it haint that Byrd Carter cornin’ up the walk 
and er struttin’ wid his high-top, slick bee gum sot 
onter de back ob his head and er flourishin’ of his cane, 
fur all the world like he’d jes’ stepped outen er ban’ 
box. The foppish ape! I don’t see what any gal could 
promise herself to marry him for. Thar goes the door 
now, rap! rap! I sw’ar I wish ‘outen’ as the city folks 
call it, would never come round. Here that Byrd Carter 
mus’ bring hisself ever’ summer er pretendin’ to be er 
visitin’ of his cousin, Dick Carson, and the whole of 
Beechwood naborhood must be run crazy on his account. 
Thar mus’ be picnics, no end to ’em, croquet parties and 
more fol-de-rol foolishness than was ever hearn of — 
ever’ nonsense to be foolin’ away time. Berrylline’ll 
never be no ’count, and never have the sense she was 
bornd with. It’s rap! rap! at the door, run in and out 
after Berrylline tell I’m jest erbout worn threadbar’. 
I’ll sw’ar, that door haint had er moment’s peace this 
evenin’, ever’ time I git inter a doze here comes some of 
the youngsters er friskin’ and er prancin’ er round like 
so many young colts. I wonder that Berrylline don’t 
git tired o’ so much prancin’ er round,” said the old 
man, half hid among the pillows on a lounge by the open 

54 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS 


55 


window, as he gave his bandana a vigorous twirl across 
his face to scare off the flies that seemed to have a fancy 
for tickling his nose, and turned over to go back to his 
dozing. 

“Don’t be so hard on Berrylline, Zachariah, you 
furgit you was once young, and thar was no young man 
of my knowin’ that pranced, as you call it, more’n you 
did,” said an old lady from her patching by the window 
in the corner. “And you don’t know but what I got 
mighty tired of you in those days either.” 

“Well, if you did,” the old man drawled out half 
asleep, “you’ve been er monstrous long time er tellin’ 
me of it.” 

Just then the door burst open and a merry voice said : 

“Mother, Mr. Carter wants me to go driving with 
him. May I go? The evening is delightful for driving; 
besides he has a splendid span of horses and we can go 
to see cousin Annie in a flash.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the old man mockingly. “A flash ! 
Indeed Byrd Carter is such a wonderful fellow he’ll be 
er takin’ yer to der moon in er flash, der nex’ thing. 
It’s er great pity while he’s er flashin’ he — he don’t flash 
a little more money inter his pocket.” 

“Mother, may I go?” asked Beryl again, seeming 
not to hear her father’s remarks. 

“No ; you can’t,” stormed out the father, “and I tell 
you Berrylline — and I mean it, too — I don’t want any 
Byrd Carters in mine. The truth of the business is, I 
haint got no sort of use fur city chaps, nohow, and spe- 
cially them that tries to put on so many airs.” 

“Oh, mother! Do tell father to hush. Mr. Carter 
will surely hear him,” whispered Beryl. 

“I don’t keer if he does,” came back in louder 


56 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


tones. “You are determined to go agin my will, and 
you’ll see how you’ll turn out — you’ll see ! Now if it was 
Dick Carson I wouldn’t say nary word. But no; you’d 
be er pleasin’ your old daddy too well. You mus’ always 
be on the rule of contrariness. You’ve got your head 
sot on marryin’ this city chap wid nothin’ but the 
clothes on his back, and nothin’ else’ll do you but to 
marry him ; but I’ll not give you a red cent, and you’ll 
see whar you’ll land, Go on, go on; don’t be er stand- 
in’ thar like you’re fit to cry, the time’ll come soon 
enough to cry when you see whar you’ll land.” 

“Mother,” said Beryl, “what shall I do ! Must I go?” 

“Why yes, of course. I can’t see how you are to 
get out of it. You don’t want to insult Mr. Carter.” 

“I ’spose my word haint nothing,” growled the old 
man. “I can’t even be master in my own house. Well, 
we’ll see whar she’ll land.” 

With a merry twinkle in her eyes Beryl donned her 
hat and was soon riding gayly by Byrd Carter’s side, 
but the old man kept muttering : 

“Yes, yes, we’ll all see whar she’ll land.” 

“Land Pap? Whose agoin’ to land? Is thar a boat 
cornin’ down the river this evenin’? Is it a big boat? 
What is its name? Oh! I’m going to see it. You said 
I might go to see the very next one that come. Now, 
Pap, you musn’t go back on me,” and Pat Lyman, a boy 
of eight with an oyster can of bait in one hand and his 
fishing pole in the other, strode into the room. 

“Who said anything ’bout er boat, you little ras- 
cal?” answered the father. “I see you’ve made your 
’rangements to go somewhar, boat or no boat. How did 
you know I’d let you go, you scamp? Haint you got 
your bait, as if you was goin’ anyhow?” 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS 


57 


“I wasn’t goin’ to the river though; me and Jim Per- 
kins was goin’ to the creek, but you said a boat was go- 
ing to land and I was bound to see it and I changed my 
notion ’bout goin’ to the creek quickr’n you could say 
‘Jack Roberson.’ ” 

“Git out! Git out! you imperdent pup. If you 
say boat or land to me ergin I’ll wallup you in an inch 
of your life,” roared the old man. 

The youngster departed for the creek and his com- 
panion, fully convinced that he had approached the old 
gentleman at a very inopportune moment. 

“It is very strange, Beryl, that your father dislikes 
me so much,” said Byrd Carter, as they drove leisurely 
along. 

“Did you hear what he said this evening?” blush- 
ingly asked Beryl. 

“Why, certainly I did, but it amused me to see the 
position he takes. If I were some hideous monster he 
could not make a greater fuss about my visits.” 

“You must not mind my father,” said Beryl. “He 
is a little peculiar at times, but for all that, he has a 
kind heart.” 

“I do not doubt that, but it is not always pleasant 
to hear one’s own self spoken of so disparagingly.” 

“I know that it is anything but pleasant, and I 
regret that father allows prejudice to influence him to 
such an extent. But it is amusing to observe how par- 
tial he is to your cousin, Mr. Carson.” 

“And so bitter toward me,” replied Carter. 

“Yes,” answered Beryl. “But father is old fogy- 
ish, and he imagines you are dudish, citified, etc. 
Reared in the rural districts, as he has been, he could 
hardly be convinced that a true man could be brought 


58 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


up in a city; and he thinks I am going against his will 
just to be obstinate, as if we could control our hearts, 
if we were really in love with each other. He does not 
dream that you are cousin Annie’s lover, and only my 
friend and confidant.” 

“Heigh, ho! And that is the truth of it, is it? We 
might have a little fun out of him if it wouldn’t be too 
cruel.” 

“Yes, I have thought of that; if only to tease him 
a little while. He does not suspect for one moment that 
Dick Carson and I are engaged, but thinks it is you I 
love.” 

“How could he have made such a mistake? and does 
your mother share in the same delusion?” 

“Yes; they are both deceived, and I will tell you 
how it came about. In the first place, I have always 
been shy where Mr. Carson was concerned, and when 
father would be loud in his praise, although my heart 
was full of joy and gladness to hear it, I would speak 
up in your favor. I did so to hide my secret, and now 
neither could be convinced that it is any other than you. 
My mother, by the way, is the dearest mother in the 
world, and she is happiest when making me happy.” 

Soon Beryl and her escort were alighting at her 
cousin, Annie Liston’s home, and ere long Dick Carson 
arrived, and a merry evening they spent planning how 
they would fool the old folks. 

The declining sun whispered at length that it was 
time for Beryl to be homeward bound, and soon the 
party were driving through the long avenues of shade 
over the smooth, dusty roads towards Squire Lyman’s 
residence; when they drove up to the gate they could 
see the old gentleman sitting by the open window indulg- 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS 59 


ing in the quiet companionship of a pipe of tobacco, 
wreaths of smoke ascending as he looked over his spec- 
tacles to note the arrivals. 

“I’ll swar, old woman, yonder they come back, and 
as usual, Annie’s with Carter ; I declare the way Berryl- 
line goes on will be the the death of me yit. I reckon 
your Brother Jonathan feels mighty proud his darter 
is er makin’ sich er good ketch.” 

“My brother don’t bother hisself, Zeckariah, with 
such nonsense.” 

“That’s jest like you, Matildy Jane, jest like you, 
and hit’s as plain as the nose on your face whar Berryl- 
line gits her foolish ways. She don’t take ’em arter her 
old daddy, I kin tell you, narry bit of it.” 

“I’m glad — ” Mrs. Lyman began. 

“Now don’t you begin, Matildy Jane, for God’s 
sake don’t begin, thar’s no end to you when you do be- 
gin, and you have mighty nigh talked me to death 
already.” 

“Zachariah — ” she began again. 

“I won’t hear you, Matilda Jane, I han’t well no 
how.” And he laid his cob pipe in the window as he 
began a low humming. 

Mrs. Lyman smiled but made no response; she had 
not lived with ’Squire Lyman all these years for nothing. 

The next evening it was Dick Carson that sent the 
old knocker going at the door of ’Squire Lyman, and 
he was met by the old gentleman himself. 

“Good evenin’ Mr. Carson, monstrous glad to see 
you; walk in, take a cheer; a mighty warm day,” said 
the old man in a flurried manner, as he ushered Dick 
Carson into the parlor and took his seat by him. 

“How’s craps over your way, young man?” asked 
the ’squire. 


60 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“Very good, ’squire, very good, indeed,” he 
answered, pleasantly. 

“Well, I don’t wonder, you've got sich a fine farm, 
wet or dry she produces all the same. I wouldn’t keer 
if I could find sich er one to buy for Berrylline ; and sich 
er good house on it, too, and your pastures. Why it 
cools me off er hot day to look at your green fields, and 
your stock — no kentry can boast of any finer.” 

“Thank you, ’squire, I have tried to make my home 
a desirable one, and I find much pleasure there, and, 
like you, I appreciate my surroundings.” 

“But I’ll swar,” said the ’squire, seeming suddenly 
to think of himself. “I forgot you didn’t come to see 
me. I’ll send my gal in,” and the old gentleman arose 
to go. 

“I am always delighted to meet with your young 
ladies,” answered Mr. Carson, “but ’squire you needn’t 
hurry.” 

“Well, I guess I had, for you see I know how young 
folks is, for I’ve been erlong thar myself.” 

’Squire Lyman bowed himself out, and in a little 
while Beryl came tripping in, all aglow with happiness; 
and swiftly the evening passed as the moments always 
did when the lovers were thrown together. 

It happened a few weeks after this that Byrd Car- 
ter was called away on business. There was a little 
estrangement existing between him and Annie, and 
Beryl had promised to correspond with him for cousin 
Annie’s sake, and to effect a reconciliation. A few 
days after Mr. Carter’s departure, ’Squire Lyman, as 
usual, went to town for mail. Beryl saw him coming, 
and expecting a letter, .she ran eagerly out to meet him, 
as she always did on mail day. 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS 61 

“Oh ! father, did you get any letters?” she inquired, 
as she met him at the steps. 

“Yes,” he answered, gruffly. 

“From whom, father?” 

“One from your Aunt Sary Ann, one from your 
Uncle Billy, one from your Cousin Tom, and one from 
the devil.” 

Beryl staid to hear no more, but quickly sped up 
the w T alk, convulsed w T ith laughter, for she knew very 
well who was meant by this complimentary allusion. 
She did not more than reach her room till she heard her 
father’s voice saying: 

“Old woman, what in the name of common sense 
are we to do with Berylline? Here’s a letter from that 
trifling Carter, and I’ve er mighty notion not to give it 
to her. She’ll be er marryin’ him the next thing.” 

“Well, if she does,” answered the mother. “He’s 
a very good sort of a feller ; only he’s not so rich as that 
Carson you sot so much store by. Give her the letter, 
and don’t be so hard on the gal.” 

“Carter er good sorter feller, indeed! I’ll swar if 
Berrylline marries that wretch she shan’t have one cent 
of my property,” and he left the room slamming the 
door so hard that the window came down with a crash, 
breaking several panes. 

“Mother, what did father do with my letter?” 
asked Beryl as she entered smiling. “Oh! here it is on 
the table with the others,” and taking possession of it 
she ran away to her room ere the old man returned. 

Beryl -was not so fortunate, however, in getting to 
peruse the next epistle from Mr. Carter, even though it 
eluded the vigilance of her father. It was her elder 
brother that brought this one from the office, and from 


62 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


pure mischief, wishing to tease, he held the letter up at 
arm’s length and said: 

“Oh ! yes, my young lady, here’s another messenger 
of love from your dear little Byrd, and if you don’t let 
me read it, I’ll tell father.” 

A big romp followed, as her most persuasive tones 
could not induce him to give it to her. But in an un- 
guarded moment she succeeded in stealing it out of his 
hands: yet, before she could break the seal he was in 
such close pursuit that to avoid the recapture of the mis- 
sive she threw it into the fire, where it was instantly 
consumed. 

“Now tell father, if you want to,” she said defi- 
antly. In this way she continued to strengthen the be- 
lief with them all that Byrd Carter, and none other, was 
her lover. 

The summer was almost spent and ’Squire Lyman 
was in a perfect fever of excitement. Carter’s visits 
grew more frequent. But Carson still came, and the old 
man couldn’t see why Beryl didn’t act sensible and give 
Carter the mitten. 

The last call Mr. Carter made as Beryl’s lover he 
was met at the door by Pat, the little brother, who es- 
corted him to the parlor, and feeling the dignity of the 
position, proceeded to entertain the young gentleman 
the best he knew how. 

“Say Mr. Carter,” he began in rather confidential 
tones, as he drew a chair near the visitor. “Do you 
buy ducks? How much do you give for them? Pap says 
Beryl’ll take her ducks to a poor market when she takes 
’em to you: but Pap needn’t to be cuttin’ up, for he 
never give ’em to Beryl, nohow. Aunt Sary Ann sent 
’em to her, and they lay lots of aigs ; but Pap said they 


HOW THEY FOOLED THE OLD FOLKS 63 


was no ’count ’cause they muddy up the pond, and he 
said he wished they’s all dead. But law! you can’t de- 
pend on Pap — whoever pays the most gits what Pap’s 
got, and don’t you forgit it. Say, I’ve got an old roos- 
ter to sell. He’s game, too, I tell you — Gee Whilikins! 
But he’s got spurs. Now how much’ll you give?” 

But alas for Pat! He never knew what Mr. Carter’s 
answer would have been, for he heard Beryl coming, and 
jumping up, hurriedly said: 

“Please don’t tell about the ducks, for mother don’t 
allow us to tell tales out of school,” and the next mo- 
ment he had disappeared as Beryl was entering the room. 

Ere long Cousin Annie and Dick Carson arrived, 
and a reconciliation was effected between Mr. Carter and 
his betrothed Annie. A consultation was held between 
the happy pairs, and the next day Beryl made a visit to 
her Cousin Annie. Somehow news was abroad, and 
reached the ears of ’Squire Lyman, to the effect that 
Beryl and Byrd Carter had run off to marry, and that 
Dick Carson and Annie had gone with them. How he 
walked the floor and raved, saying he would never look 
on her face again, then burst into a cry and went to bed. 

Mrs. Lyman took it quietly and tried to console her 
husband, but without avail. 

On the following day, just as the sun was sinking 
to rest and tingeing the distant hills with his dying 
glory, the runaways drove up. 

“Oh, Pap, git up! Hurra! Beryl has married Dick 
Carson, after all; and Cousin Annie has married the 
duck peddler,” said Pat, rushing in, out of breath. 

“Git out, youngster; what you talkin’ erbout?” 

“Oh, it’s so; and they’re gittin’ out of the buggy.” 

By this time the old man was at the door, in his 


64 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


sock feet and shirt sleeves, while the old lady stood by 
his side, peering over her spectacles. 

Beryl and Dick came up the walk laughing, and the 
old man met them on the steps. 

“What on airth, Berrylline, made you fool me so?” 
And he grasped the hand of Carson while he encircled 
Beryl’s slight form with his arm. “Did you marry him, 
my gal, jest to please me?” he asked. 

“Not exactly,” she replied. “We have loved each 
other all the time; and it was Cousin Annie Mr. Carter 
loved. But will you not congratulate them?” 

“I guess I will; and Carter, it’s as my old woman 
said. You air er down right good sort er feller, and be- 
sides settin’ Beryl and Carson up, I shall not forgit to 
help you and Annie. Here, old woman, give them all 
er hearty welcome,” he said, as he drew her towards 
them. “For as Berrylline was readin’ tother day, in 
that Shakespeare book, ‘All’s well that ends well,’ and 
I reckon I’ve made a ‘mighty to do about nothin.’ ” 


A SUMMER'S IDYL. 


We sailed down the broad flowing river, — 
Two lovers, one calm summer’s night, — 

The moon softly smiled in her gladness; 

We basked in her pale yellow light. 

We sailed to the realms of the mystic, 

Where Cupid is king of the land; 

We drifted -with love for our beacon, 

We drifted with hand clasping hand. 

The steamer moved forward in splendor, 

The moon in her brightness shone on, 

And I was all thrilled with rapture, — 

With joy for the heart I had won. 

The river, my life, and the heavens 

Seemed studded with stars bright as gold ; 

Her face was aglow with a radiance 
That spoke of the story so old. 

So onward we sailed in the moonlight, 
Forgetful of time and of place , 

Till a cloud had obscured the horizon, — 

Fair Luna w T as hiding her face. 

Our steamer is safe at the landing, 

Our hearts, too, have anchored at last, 

And the future is glowung with sunshine, 
Reflecting the joys of the past. 

* * * % * 

65 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


«6 


The flowers are blooming in woodlands, 
The birds, they are carolling sweet, 

The river is rolling in grandeur, 

As if the great ocean to meet. 

The mock-bird has built in the branches 
Among the green leaflets a nest, 

We hear the low notes of her night-song 
A-hushing her darlings to rest. 

We think of a time in the future, 

A time when our hearts will be one, 

Our lives with a brilliance are gilded 
As touched by the slow sinking sun, 

We sang with the birds in the evening. 

’Twas gladness in woodland and dell, 
No cloud overspread the horizon, 

No shadow e’er gathered and fell. 
***** 

I bade her good-bye in the morning, 

Read trust in her eyes darkly blue, 
“Marguerite, ’tis the hour of our parting, 
To me you’ll remain ever true?” 

A mist now enveloped the river, 

And it hid both the forest and sky, 

This — this was our last and fond parting, 
And this was our last sad good-bye. 

Distrust now crept in like serpent, 
Distrust which was cruel as death, 

And took from me Marg’ret, my idol, 

And took from me love and its wealth. 


A SUMMER’S IDYL 


A gloom now hangs over the river, 

Our haunts are deserted and still, 
And love has gone out of my kingdom. 
And comes never more at my will. 


IDA VANE'S PROPOSAL. 


A ROMANCE OF THE CLAYTON EPIDEMIC. 


“Is this your final answer, Ida?” 

“It is, Robert, now and forever. As Myrtle’s 
brother I respect you, and as a friend, tried and true, I 
think of you ; but we cannot control our hearts nor our 
destinies, and forgive me, Robert, if it pains you, when 
I say I do not, and cannot love you as a woman ought 
to love the man to whom she has given the first and best 
fruits of her life.” 

“If you will only give me the shadow of a hope, I 
will wait for years and prove to you how undying is my 
affection,” and Robert Irvington’s lips quivered as he 
looked into eyes that gave no response to the great love 
that shone in his. 

“There is no hope,” she answered firmly. 

“Another stands between us?” he whispered 
mournfully. 

“Yes, one I have loved since childhood’s happy 
day, and to whom I have plighted my troth.” She could 
see with what crushing weight her words fell upon him, 
and she realized, too, how the man w T as battling with the 
strong emotions that swayed his inmost soul. “I would 
have saved you this blow, Robert,” she continued, “had 
I dreamed you loved me more than a friend. I thought 

68 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


69 


you knew my wedding day was set, and that I am soon 
to be the bride of Rick Garnett.” 

“I do not blame you,” he answered wearily. “I 
alone made the mistake. I loved you so fondly and was 
so blinded in my love I could but believe that it was recip- 
rocated. I am sorry for us both, bat I hope you will be 
happy with the one you have chosen. As for me, my 
star has gone down, life holds nothing for me now. I 
leave this evening for home, and you will promise me, 
Ida, that if the time ever comes when you are in need 
of a friend that you will send for me? Remember I 
will come only as a friend, and will never again trespass 
on the bounds between us. Do you promise?” and he 
took her hand and gazed long into the blue depths of 
her eyes as if he would take her image with him forever. 

“I promise, Robert, and the promise shall be sa- 
credly kept,” she answered in gentle tones. 

A clasp of the hand, a good-bye, and Robert Irving- 
ton went down the long walk from whence he had 
expected so much and gained little. 

* * * * * * 

Ida and Rose Vane had been two very happy girls, 
surrounded by a pleasant home circle, loving brothers 
and sisters, and everything that completes the sum of 
life. But alas for the idols of youth ! Their hearts 
had strayed into forbidden grounds, and the engage- 
ments now existing between the fair lasses and their 
lovers were bitterly opposed by their unrelenting father. 
Ida had been such a dutiful child all her brief young life 
that her father could not become reconciled to the great 
change wrought in her by association with Rick Garnett. 
Rose had always been wayward, and he was not sur- 
prised at her obstinacy. 


70 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


But sorrows came all too soon to these light-hearted 
maiden. Death entered their home and it became 
broken. Father and mother were laid to rest within a 
month of each other. Ida seemed almost crushed by this 
bereavement, and for weeks and months grieved for the 
departed, almost refusing to be comforted. But time 
heals the deepest wounds. A year after Rose married 
Henry Marsdon, the old home passed into other hands, 
and Ida went to reside with her brother Fred, who had 
married Myrtle Irvington, only sister of Robert Irving- 
ton. 

Fred and Robert had been school-mates, and during 
a vacation spent at Robert’s home, which was in Hern- 
don, a town some distance from Clayton, Fred had wooed 
and won the lovely Myrtle. Robert had been making 
his sister a visit previous to the opening of our story, 
and daily association with Ida Vane had awakened 
within him the purest, sweetest dreams of his life. Mr. 
Vane favored Robert’s suit, and hoped his daughter 
would be wise enough to appreciate the vast difference 
in the characters of the two lovers suing for her hand. 
But alas for the parents’ fondest wishes when infatua- 
tion takes possession of a girl’s heart! Ida had rejected 
Robert and sent him out into the world hopeless and 
aimless. 

A few months after this the home sorrows came to 
our heroine, and her wedding day was postponed for an 
indefinite period. But Rick Garnett was constant in 
his devotions. They sat on the veranda one June even- 
ing in the gathering twilight, watching the stars come 
out one by one, too happy in each other’s presence to 
break the silence. At length Rick drew nearer, and 
clasping her hand, said : 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


71 


“Ida, why have you kept me waiting so long ; when 
will you make me happy? Why don’t you name the day? 
My sister is coming to make me a visit, and her husband’s 
niece, Lida Garrison, is to accompany her. Why not 
let our wedding be while they are here, in leafy June?” 

“Would it make you very happy, Rick?” 6he asked, 
looking up into his brown orbs. 

“Nothing in all the wide world could bring me such 
happiness. Do you doubt me, darling? Is that why you 
ask me such a question?” 

“No, I do not doubt you, but I was only thinking 
what if something should come to part us.” 

“Nothing shall come between us,” he answered in 
reassuring tones. Now* name our wedding day.” 

“It shall be when you wish; anything, Rick, to 
make you happy, ’’she whispered. So again the wedding 
day was set, and the two lovers parted that night full 
of bright hopes for the future. The following day 
brought Rick Garnett’s sister and Miss Garrison. 
From the first time Rick Garnett’s eyes beheld Lida 
Garrison’s beautiful face, his approaching marriage and 
Ida were all forgotten. Beautiful as a dream was this 
siren, with poetry and s} 7 mmetry in every movement. 
Every day found Rick more fascinated with this charmer, 
and his visits to Ida were fewei and farther between. 

But there came a day when a fatal epidemic pre- 
vailed in Clayton, when the Garnetts, with their visitors, 
and others betook themselves to the seashore, the moun- 
tains or some other safe retreat, and Rick was gone, too, 
without even a good-bye to Ida. Among those who 
fell victims to the direful disease were Rose Marsden, 
and Robbie Vane, Fred and Myrtle’s baby boy. So 
morning, noon, and night found the faithful Ida divid- 


72 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


ing her time between the sufferers. If she looked sad 
and careworn, it was not attributed to Rick’s faithless- 
ness ; for in the fiery ordeal through which they were 
passing the whole world seemed forgotten. But down 
deep in Ida’s heart the struggle had been going on, and 
she had come off conqueror. 

“And all that was left of the sweet, sweet dream, 

With its thousand brilliant phases, 

Was a handful of dust in a coffin laid, 

A coffin under the daisies.” 

Oh, the horrors of an epidemic, when disease and 
death are in all the land, in the very air we breathe, and 
there seems no hope of escape ! Rose and little Robbie 
grew worse day by day, and now Fred had to succumb 
to the fearful scourge, and he, too, lay on a bed of suf- 
fering. 

So happy had Ida been with the little group, Fred, 
Myrtle and the children, at Sylvan Shade, that she little 
dreamed how soon miles of distance, and even death, 
would roll between her and them. 

Myrtle was in ill health, Rose’s life was despaired 
of, and Ida scarcely knew where she was needed most. 
And after a while the death angel knocked at Sylvan 
Shade and called for little Robbie, and slowly his life 
ebbed away. 

“Oh! if only Robert would come,” moaned Myrtle 
in her anguish, “but I don’t know where a telegram 
would reach him. He has been traveling ever since he 
left us more than a year ago.” 

Ida had been wishing for him too, and more than 
once his words had come back to her. “If the time ever 
comes when you are in need of a friend, send for me.” 

“I need him now, I need him now!” her heart 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


73 


cried out, and a telegram went flying over the wires to 
Herndon, trusting to find him there, and fortunately he 
w T as there. News of the Clayton scourge had already 
reached him, and he was making ready to go at once. 
Yet he read with some surprise these words : 

“Robert, I am in need of a friend. Come to 

“Ida.” 

But the death angel had been before him when he 
reached Clayton. Little Robbie, the pet of the household, 
and Robert’s namesake, had crossed over into sunlight. 
Already his remains had been taken to their last resting 
place. Robert hurried to the cemetery, on reaching 
which, he found the friends assembled to pay the last 
sad tribute to Robbie’s memory. He saw kneeling by 
the casket two black-robed figures, whom he recognized 
as Myrtle and Ida. Through Ida’s sobs he caught the 
words: “Oh, Robbie! Robbie! shall we never, again, 
hear your sweet voice? Shall I never again see you 
at the window shouting, ‘Yonder comes Ida?’ Will you 
stand at Heaven’s window and watch for Ida, my angel 
Robbie?” 

Robert went up and knelt between Myrtle and Ida, 
and clasped the hand of each in his, and they smiled 
through their tears, and felt that his presence strength- 
ened and sustained them. 

“Oh, Robert,” said Myrtle on their return from 
their burial, “how thankful I am that you have come. 
How did you know? Did God send you?” 

“I guess he did,” was the reply, “and one of his 
angels sent the telegram.” 

“Was it Ida!” she asked. 

“Yes, it was Ida.” 


74 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“She is indeed, my sister, Robert; and I know not 
how I could do without her,'’ said Myrtle. 

Fred was rejoiced to see Robert, and for a while 
seemed better. But the warm summer days grew sul- 
trier, and the disease assumed its worst form. Rose was 
still very low, but the physician now entertained some 
hopes of her recovery. But poor Fred’s life hung on a 
brittle thread, and superhuman strength seemed given to 
Robert and Ida as they watched through the long days 
and nights by his bedside. Ida now saw Robert in his 
true light — the great, noble, true-hearted man that he 
was. Never by word or act did he betray the old love 
that had never burnt itself out. But he was always 
kind and gentle towards her, yet it was the kindness 
with which a brother would treat a sister, and nothing 
more. If he wondered at Rick Garnett’s absence now 
from his rightful place he kept it to himself. And so 
the days drifted on, Ida still dividing her time, as much 
as lay in her power, between brother and sister. 

Again a wail of anguish went up from Sylvan 
Shade. A wife weeping for her husband, a sister for her 
brother. Fred’s spirit had passed from earth, and cold 
and still he lay in the arms of death. A grave was 
made by little Robbie’s, and side by side slept father 
and son. 

Myrtle and Ida felt that their cup of sorrow was 
filled to the brim, and now their separation was coming. 
Robert was going to take Myrtle and her little boy, Irv- 
ing, to live with him. 

“Won’t Aunt Ida go with us?” Irving kept asking, 
when preparations were being made for their going. 
And when they told him she could not go, he began 
crying : 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


75 


“Papa, Robbie and Aunt Ida all gone? Oh. Uncle 
Robert, make Aunt Ida go with us.” 

How Robert wished he had the right to take her, 
but, alas! all hope in that direction was dead with him. 

“We have been so happy, Ida, and oh, I don’t see, 
with all my sorrows now, how I can live without you,” 
said Myrtle, through her tears, as they stood at the de- 
pot, waiting for the train, “but you will come when 
Rose gets well enough for you to leave her!” 

“Yes, sometimes,” Ida answered in a trembling 
voice. 

“I wish I could have seen Rose before I left, but 
the physician said it w r as not best. Tell her all when 
she can bear it, and take her to the graves of our loved 
ones.” 

The train same rushing in , hurried good-byes were 
spoken, and with Robert’s parting words, “Ida, you 
will always find a welcome awaiting you at Forest Home,” 
ringing in her ears, she perceived that her darlings were 
gone and she was standing alone on the platform. 
Almost blinded with tears, she wended her way back to 
Rose, passing Sylvan Shade, mournfully silent and 
tenantless. 

Oh, the dreary days that followed, when her pent 
up anguish longed to burst in turbulent sobs. But 
Rose’s eyes were ever upon her in the days of her con- 
valescence, and her constant inquiries of Fred and 
Myrtle almost led Ida into a betrayal, strive as she 
might against it. The physicians had directed that she 
should not be informed of the death of Fred and Robbie 
until she was well, lest the shock might prove fatal, and 
they had strictly guarded every word and every visitor. 

Rose had asked so often why Fred and Myrtle had 


76 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


quit coming to see her, and put her off from time to 
time, with various answers, til] Ida was forced to tell 
her they were in Herndon with Robert. She would then 
ask about their letters, if Fred sent any word, etc., until 
Ida felt almost wicked for having dissembled so much. 

Through all this another shadow fell on Ida’s heart; 
Myrtle had written that Robert was sick, and another let- 
ter followed, saying it was the fearful disease that had car- 
ried Fred away, and that he was in precarious condition ; 
then all communications ceased. Crushed and sad, with 
a silent prayer ever ascending for Robert’s recovery, Ida 
faithfully performed her duties for Rose. At last joy- 
ful news came. Myrtle had written that Robert was 
out of danger, and she said: 

“During his illness, my sister, he thought I was you; 
he called me Ida all the time.” 

Did Ida’s prayers save Robert? We cannot tell; 
but we know that she kissed the words where Myrtle 
said he called her Ida, and a blush suffused her face as 
she hid the letter. 

This never-to-be-forgotten summer glided into dying 
autumn. September, with fading flowers, passed away, 
and October with bronze and gold, and purplish haze, 
was fully come ere Rose had entirely recovered. 

Henry Marsden had won a place in Ida’s heart by 
his devotion to Rose, and she compared him with Rick 
Garnett, wondering not that the scales tipped so heavily 
in favor of Henry, and wished her father had known 
him as she knew him now. 

Rose and Henry had been out this evening for a 
drive, the first time she had been able to leave the room. 
She came in, her face flushed and her eyes brightened, 
looking the Rose of other days. Seating herself by Ida, 
she said: 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


77 


“Tell me, sister, about the epidemic. Who of my 
friends are gone?” 

“Do you think you are able to hear that recital of 
woe?” asked Ida. 

“Oh, yes; tell me, I think of it all the time any 
way, and it will be no worse to know the truth and end 
my suspense. Tell me, too, when Fred and Myrtle will 
come home? We passed Sylvan Shade, this evening, and 
it looked as silent as a tomb.” 

Ida turned a shade paler, and a choking sensation 
came over her. How could she tell Rose that Fred 
would never come? But, suppressing her emotion, she 
tried to be brave. She knew the time had come; Rose 
would be put off no longer, and upon her the task de- 
volved. Ever since the bereavement had come, the puz- 
zling question with her had been, how to break the 
news to Rose. Now it confronted her and must be done. 
She could only trust to God for help. 

“You were among the first victims, Rose,” she be- 
gan, “and you have been very, very ill. How thankful 
we ought to feel for your recovery, you can never know, 
for it seemed at one time that all our loved ones would 
be taken. Disease, death and mourning were every- 
where, and often no one to nurse the sick. I never wit- 
nessed such a time in all my life; the houses of our 
two nearest neighbors held each a corpse the same 
night. 

“Poor Nora Feland’s mother, sister and her sister’s 
two children died. Effie Blanton's little Wina; and 
Mrs. Hayne’s mother, went too. Scarcely a family es- 
caped, and oh ! it seemed as though Clayton was noth- 
ing but a hospital and charnel house. It is so sad, Rose, 
almost every lady you meet is dressed in deep mourning, 


78 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


and it seems that there is such a bond of sympathy 
new between the people throughout Clayton. 

Rose was crying softly. 

“Don’t tell me any more, Ida,” she said, “but sing 
me the new song you said our teacher had written.” 

Ida went to the organ and played a soft prelude, 
and her sad, sweet voice floated on the waning twilight 
as she sang : 

‘•I am watching o’er you, Myrtie, 

From this land so fair and bright; 

Where all tears are wiped away, 

And we never know the night. 

“Many have crossed on before us, 

Who’ve given me a welcome home ; 

At the gate I found our darling, 

Wondering if papa would come. 

OHOEUS : 

“I am watching, watching, o’er you. 

Through the night and through the day, 

I am watching, Myrtie, darling; 

Ever watching o’er your way. 

“You are now so sad and lonely, 

And the cradle’s empty too; 

But look to heaven, Myrtie, darling; 

Its gates will open unto you. 

“Our Father’ll smooth the rugged pathway, 

For your worn and weary feet: 

He will lead you, Myrtie darling, • 

To that bourne, where we shall meet. 

“Believe that I’m ever near you, 

In your sorrow, in your joy; 

I am novering o’er you, darling, 

And watching o’er our little boy. 

“Tell him of his father, brother, 

Who wait across the jasper sea; 

How they listen for his footsteps, 

And ever watch, my love, for thee.” 

Rose heard the last words through and groping her 
way to Ida, she fell on her knees and buried her face in 
her sister’s lap. 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


79 


“Oh! I know, Ida. I have felt all the time that 
something was wrong. Fred and Robbie are gone too. 
They will never come again. They are in heaven.” 

Henry Marsden coming in, found the two sisters 
clasped in each other’s arms and mingling their tears in 
the gathering darkness. 

“And, Ida, my own noble Ida,” continued Rose in 
a voice full of tears, “you have borne all this alone. 
My poor suffering Ida.” And she drew the sweet face 
to her and kissed the quivering lips. “My poor, little 
darling,” and she lovingly stroked her hair. 

The following morning Henry took them to the 
cemetery, and by the graves of “the loved and lost” 
Ida told Rose all. 

“And Rick Garnett, Ida; did he help you through 
your sorrow?” 

“Don’t mention his name, Rose, in this sacred 
place; he is not worthy. Robert Irvington was our 
hero,” Ida responded. 

The epidemic had subsided and Clayton w T as again 
in a prosperous condition. The refugees had returned, 
and among them the Garnetts. Not long after their re- 
turn Rick called to see Ida. She had met him looking 
more beautiful than ever before. Sorrow had softened 
her face, and a pathetic tenderness shone in her eyes, 
while a subdued sweetness lingered around her mouth. 

She swept in so stately, so grandly, that the words 
with which he had intended to greet her died on his 
lips, while she motioned him to a seat. 

“Ida,” he began, “I have come to make a 
confession. I have wronged you, but Lida Gar- 
rison led me away from you, and when too late I 
found her false. She is now married to another. I have 


80 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


made a woeful mistake. I know that it is you alone 
that I love. Will you not forgive and reinstate me in 
your favor? Will you not take me back to your heart 
again?” 

“I forgive you, Mr. Garnett,” she answered coldly; 
“but take you back, never. There is no room in my 
heart for you. The place you once occupied is now dust 
and ashes. I could not love you if I would.” 

“Robert Irvington, I presume, has usurped my 
place?” he queried scornfully. 

“Do not breathe his name,” she replied. “You are 
unworthy. I rejected him once for you and forfeited my 
father’s good opinion. Now do not come back to me, 
but go!” and she waved her hand toward the door. 
“It is stifling to breathe the same air that you breathe. 
Remember that henceforth we are dead to each other.” 

He passed from her presence, and his last glance 
at her beautiful face told him his sceptre had departed, 
his power was gone. 

One year has gone by. Again summer is full upon 
Clayton — the anniversary of the terrible scourge. In 
all this time Ida has not seen Myrtle, but long, loving 
letters have been exchanged, and in every one of them 
Myrtle begs Ida to come. Never a word of Robert only 
to say he is well, yet how eagerly Ida scans every letter, 
hoping for one word from the idol who now fills every 
corner of her heart. She sees him in her dreams by day, 
and in her dreams by night; sees him by her loved 
brother’s dying bed; hears his comforting words, both 
to herself and his broken-hearted sister; sees his hand- 
some face and manly form, and with a sigh, she moans: 

“Too late; it can never be.” 

But Rose comes running in with a letter from 
Myrtle. 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


81 


“Read it quick, Ida, and tell me we what she says.” 
Ida opens the letter, and a slip of paper falls into her 
lap — a newspaper clipping. Rose catches it and reads : 

“Cards are out announcing the marriage of Robert 
Irvington and Miss Evelyn Cathidge, to take place Sep- 
tember 3d, etc.” 

Ida heard no more, though Rose read it through. 
She sat pretending to read her letter, but the lines ran 
zigzag every way before her eyes. 

“Why don’t you tell me what Myrtie says?” asked 
Rose. 

“She wants me to come,” answered Ida, handing 
Rose the letter. 

“Will you go?” 

“I think so,” said Ida as she arose and went to her 
room. She could think of nothing but Robert’s mar- 
riage. What right had Robert, her Robert, to marry 
another? All night she wrestled with her heart. Never 
before had she known what love was. When morning 
came her mind was fully made up — she would answer 
Myrtle’s letter in person. So a few days after we find 
her at Forest Home, the guest of Robert and Myrtle. 
Little Irving is wild with delight, for “Aunt Ida has 
come.” Myrtle and Ida are so happy to be together 
once more, and have so much to talk about, and Robert 
is so reserved and so polite. 

Nothing is said of the approaching marriage, and 
Ida does not mention it. 

Time seems to be running a race, for the days just 
fly on eagle’s pinions, and Ida will not allow herself to 
think of the time when she must leave them. She had 
taken a book, this afternoon, and told Myrtie she was 
going out for a stroll. Robert was in town, and she left 


82 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Myrtie with Irving. The air being sultry, she returned, 
after a short walk, and threw herself on the divan, in 
the hay window of the library, the heavy curtains shut- 
ting it off from the main room. A gentle breeze came 
through the open windows, and the lazy hum of insects 
lulled her into repose. She knew not how long she had 
slept, when she was awakened by the voices of Robert 
and Myrtle in the library. 

“Oh, Robert, I can’t think of Ida’s leaving us, ’’said 
Myrtle, pleadingly. “If only you loved each other, and 
you would keep her with us always I would be so happy. 
How can you keep from loving her, Robert?” 

Ida held her breath for his answer. 

“Can it be possible, sister, that you don’t know 
my secret? Have you never guessed? Have I 
guarded it so well that you have never detected that I 
love Ida Vane more than life? She is the only women I 
ever loved, and the only woman on earth I ever want to 
call by the sacred name of wife.” 

“Tell her, Robert,” pleaded Myrtle. “Keep her 
with us, won’t you?” 

“No, I will never tell her, Myrtle; my secret shall 
die with me ere I break my promise to Ida Vane. Once 
she rejected me. Sent me adrift without even a hope — 
yet I have loved her through it all. Ah! you cannot 
know the depth of my affections. How in all my wan- 
derings Ida’s sweet face has been ever before me. 
And now, since she has come to us, my whole life is a 
struggle lest my heart betray itself. You don’t know 
the wakeful nights I spend — how I try to keep out of 
her presence, how dismal the future looks with this 
fruitless love haunting me all the while.” 

“Did you not know that she had rejected Rick 
Garnett?” 


IDA VANE’S PROPOSAL 


83 


“I did not,” he answered and hope leaped into his 
eyes. “How long since?” 

“She told me that it has been almost a year,” Myr- 
tle replied. ‘ ‘Now won’t you try your fate for my sake, 
Robert?” 

“No, Myrtle, not for your sake, nor for mine — 
though I shall go to the grave with the memory of Ida 
Vane dearer to me than life itself. My sacred promise 
to her shall not be broken. I told her I would not tres- 
pass. I have not — I will not.” 

Strange words, Ida thought for a bridegroom soon 
to be — yet she heard all, but she never knew how she 
found her way out of the bay window, and knelt at 
Robert’s feet. 

“Oh, Robert,” she cried. “Will you force me to 
propose? Unmaidenly as it may seem to you, yet, after 
what I have heard, I could not let you wed another 
without first telling what is in my own heart.” 

“Wed another?” Robert asked in surprise. “Can 
it be that you did not know I had a cousin Robert, and 
it was a notice of his wedding, Myrtie sent you?” He 
saw the happiness that lit up her face, and taking her 
hands, he drew her to his side as he said: 

“Ida, darling, do you mean it? Can so much hap- 
piness be for me? Do you love me, precious Ida?” 

“Even as much as you love me, Robert ; and I don’t 
knowhow, or when it came to me. But you know we can- 
not control our hearts nor our destinies,” and she looked 
up archly into his face. He remembered those words and 
visions of that morning long ago flitted for a moment 
across his sight. But she continued : “When you were 
so ill, a prayer was in my heart all the time for your re- 
covery. When I thought you were going to marry, I 


84 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


felt that I could not give up until I had seen your 
loved face, and heard your dear voice once more.” 

“My precious darling, my own little Ida, we have 
both suffered, but now you are mine, mine for all time,” 
and he drew her closer as he pressed a loving kiss on 
her lips. Myrtie stole out of the room to weep out her 
joy, while little Irving came up to Robert, saying: 

“WV11 keep Aunt Ida always now, won’t we, Uncle 
Robert?” 

“Always, my little man, always.” he said, as he 
patted the cheeks of the little urchin. 

“Don’t be too sure that you will keep me always, 
Robert, for you know I must go back to tell Rose of our 
happiness.” 

“I cannot spare you for long, my darling girl,” 
was the answer. “For Forest Home longs to claim its 
mistress, and Myrtle longs for her sister, and Robert 
longs for his wife.” 

But they allowed Ida to return to Rose to make 
ready for her nuptials, and after thevredding Henry and 
Rose returned with Robeit, Ida and Myrtle to spend the 
summer. 

Myrtie and Ida are reunited and Robert Irvington 
is the happiest of men with sweet Ida Vane by his side. 


THE DROUTH OF EIGHTY-SEVEN. 


A LA HIAWATHA. 

O, the dry and sultry summer ! 

O, the sad and gloomy Autumn! 

With the fading of the flowers, 

And the withering of the grasses. 

Hot the sun shone o’er the landscape, 

Over all the lakes and rivers, 

Parching all the rolling prairies, 

Scorching all the fields and meadows, 
Hushing up the singing brooklets, 

Drying up the creeks and rivers, 

Leaving all the fish to perish. 

Then throughout the darkening forest 
Rang the thrilling cry of “Fire!” 

Roused the men and armed for battle ! 
Stalwart men, and women, fragile, 

Battled -with the fiery demon, 

Through the night that knew no slumber. 

Swift before it fled the wild deer, 

Fled the wild cat and the panther 
From the swamps — their hiding places. 

Still the flames crept o’er the leaflets, 
O’er the fallen leaves and stubble, 

O’er the dry and withered grasses, 

Ever creeping surely onward, 

Ever leaping higher and higher, 

85 


86 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Like a madman in his fury, 

Like a wild beast from his lair. 

Then the air was filled with vapor, 

With a dense, dark, bluish vapor 
That o’erspread the fields and woodlands 
Villages and towns and cities ; 

And the sun glared red and thirsty 
Through the clouds of smoky vapor. 

How the birds and beasts lay panting, 
With their tongues all parched and bleeding, 
And their eyes blood-shot and sunken ! 

And their cries were plaintive, pleading, 
“Give us water, water, water.” 

But the flames still cruel, craving 
Sped on towards the towns and cities. 

Sped on roaring, crackling, rushing 
With a wave of desolation. 

And the sun still red and glaring 
Gave no promise to the people. 

Ever dryer, dryer, dryer 

Grew the parched earth, like a desert, 

Till the deep wells e’en were dried up. 

Then the people, famished, cried out, 

With the wailing of the forest, 

With the beasts and birds, they cried out: 

“Give us water, water, water.” 

Then the wind took up the wailing, 

And above the crashing, burning, 

And the fire-bells ringing, clanging, 

Came the cry of “Water, water!” 

With a poisonous smoky vapor 
Came a famine and a fever, 

And it ranged through town and country, 


THE DROUTH OF EIGHTY-SEVEN 


87 


Filling all the air with anguish, 

To the palace and the hovel 
Came the thirsting, burning fever, 

And with it th’ avenging angel, 

Reaping as a harvest reaper! 

To a cot beside a river, 

Close beside a sluggish river, 

Came the devastating famine, 

Back and forth the father wandered, 

To the village, to the river ; 

“Give us food,” he cried in anguish, 
“Give us food or we must perish.” 

But the air grew thicker, denser, 

And the night winds only mocked him 
With the echo, “We must perish!” 

Then the fever came and lingered, 
Lingered long within the cottage, 

O’er the wife so fondly cherished, 

O’er a child as bright as sunshine, 

And the father saw them fading, 

Day by day he saw them dying, 

Wasting with the burning fever, 

And with all-consuming hunger. 

Came the Angel, Death, and hovered 
O’er the couch of thebeloved ones, 

O’er the couch of little Sunshine. 

Then the child, so pale and haggard, 
Stiffening in death’s icy fetters, 

Whispers through lips cold as marble: 
“Only sing one sweet song, mother.” 

And the mother, trembling, dying, 

Sang as only angels sing, 

“Rocks and storms we’ll fear no more 


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KENTUCKY FOLKS 


When on that eternal shore; 

Drop the anchor, furl the sail, 

We are safe within the vale.” 

And the winds took up the chorus, 

Gave it to the murmuring river ; 

Back the river to the forest 
Sent the echo, wild and weird : 

“Drop the anchor, furl the sail 
We are safe within the vale.” 

By the bedside stood the father, 

And he saw the long gray shadows 
Stealing slowly o’er the dying. 

Stood he there in mutest anguish — 

Stood he there and cried to Heaven; 

And the stars gleamed through the casement, 
And the moon so faint and dismal, 

Looked down sad and pitying on him. 

Then the watcher in his sorrow 
Poured his soul to God in prayer: 

“Stay thy mighty hand, O! Father, 

Lift from me this heavy burden, 

Spare to me my only treasure, 

Let this bitter cup pass from me.” 

From the silence came no answer 
But. the agonizing echo : 

“Let this bitter cup pass from me.” 

Humbled now, in meek submission, 

Prays he once again: “Dear Savior, 

To thy home, the golden city, 

Take me with my own, my darlings ; 

God, in pity hear my prayer.” 

And, our Father sent a summons 
For the soul so tired and weary, 


THE DROUTH OF EIGHTY-SEVEN 


89 


Home he called him with his dear ones 
Where no famine' and no fever — 

Naught but sunshine ever enters. 
***** 

Such was but an instance only 
Of the wasting of the famine, 

Of the pestilential fever, 

That the drouth of Eighty-seven 
Brought upon the stricken people. 
Hundreds more were sore afflicted 
Hundreds more to death fell victims, 

But at last our pitying Father 
Sent the rain in gentle showers, 

Sent the rain on field and forest, 

Sent the rain on town and city, 

Ended all the fires and fever, 

Caused the land to smile in plenty 
Made the people thankful, happy. 
***** 

Learn a lesson, O! ye people, 

From the drought of Eighty-seven. 

Learn a lesson of submission, 

Learn to trust your Heavenly Father, 
Learn to say as did the psalmist, 

“I will trust him though he slay me.” 
Though his face seems sometimes hidden 
He will ne’er forsake his children. 

Though his objects none can fathom 
Yet in goodness doth he all things. 


DONNA YENITA. 


A STORY OF SAN JACINTO BAY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Morgan’s point. 

“The long moss trailing from the trees 
Floats silently upon the breeze 
Like sadful funeral draperies. 

“Southward I hear the muffled beat 
Of waves that come with restless feet 
And lave the shore where burning heat 

“Has bent the marsh grass lowly down 
And changed its green blades into brown. 

The stars peer from the northern crown 

“And watch eve’s purple fade to gray 
As over San Jacinto Bay 
The drowning sea puts out the day.” 

— Ellen L. Sale. 

A long line of beach meeting the blue sea to the 
southward. A curve to the north and northeast where 
the rippling waves of San Jacinto Bay kiss the northern 
shores. A ship-canal crossing the land from bay to bay 
like a shining thread of silver as the dying sun swung 
lower and lower over the bosom of the deep, lighting up 
the waters far and wide with a glint of sunshine and a 
gleam of pearls. A restless tide, and soft, low winds. 
This was Morgan’s Point, a southern tract of land lying 

90 


DONNA VENITA 


91 


between San Jacinto Bay on the northeast and Galves- 
ton Bay on the south and east. 

Marguerite Van Dorn caught her first glimpse of 
this enchanted spot, as, with spy glass in hand, she 
stood on the guards of the little steamer, looking far to 
the seaward, and then across the bay on whose glassy 
waters they were sailing. Looming up in the distance 
on the shores to the northeast a quaint, old building, 
not unlike to some ancient Spanish castle, met her view. 
Not far away on San Jacinto Bay a tiny bark rode at 
anchor. A maiden stood in the swaying boat — her long, 
black tresses falling loose at the sport of the wind ; a 
scarf of crimson and gold was wound turban-like around 
her well shaped head, with its loose end of glittering 
fringe floating at her side ; one hand screened her eyes, 
and peering into the distance, she stood eager, expectant. 

“Oh f for an artist’s skill that I might transmit to 
canvas that picture — the maiden, the sea and sky,” ex- 
claimed Miss Van Dorn, lost in admiration. The cap- 
tain coming up at the moment, said: 

“I see that you have already discovered the chief at- 
traction at Morgan’s Point, and I am not surprised, for 
nature and art have combined to make it a picture that 
has charmed more than one. Around yonder castle lin- 
gers the legendary lore of centuries, and its title — Castle 
De Leon — breathes of Spanish heroes. The occupant of 
that boat is Donna Venita, and that,” pointing up the 
bay, across from where the little boat rode at anchor, 
toward a marble shaft gleaming in the setting sun, “is 
a monument dedicated to the sea. I told you,” he con- 
tinued, “that Morgan’s Point held a romance and a 
mystery; and across the bay, in Castle De Leon dwell, 
in all their regal splendor, a prince and princess.” 


92 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


But they were steaming into port and she did not 
reply to the captain’s words, for she was thinking that 
perhaps she might soon have it in her power to solve 
the mystery, if a mystery existed in this fair Eden. 

Marguerite Van Dorn had been spending several 
months with friends in Houston, but now it was summer 
in the Lone Star State and those who had been reared 
beneath the genial skies of a Kentucky home found the 
tropical rays of a Southern sun too ardent for their 
weary bodies and overtaxed brains, so a trip to Morgan’s 
Point was planned and carried into execution. 

It was a bright day in July when the party of 
pleasure-seekers boarded the gay little steamer, Eugene, 
and set sail for their destination. Down the sluggish 
stream their boat skimmed along until the slow moving 
waters had widened into a sparkling river, with magno- 
lias and a few lingering flowers blooming on its margin. 
On they sped until the river had widened into San 
Jacinto Bay. 

Thrice blessed is he who can give to exhausted hu- 
manity a fresh impulse of vitality, or awaken a feeling of 
merriment or a sense of the ludicrous in hearts that are 
weary and oppressed. Such a man was the Eugene’s 
captain, and in his peculiar, reverberating laugh the 
party found k^en enjoyment, especially when he in- 
quired of his passengers, in the blandest of tones, if 
they had any bear grass, which, in Kentucky parlance, 
Miss Van Dorn understood to mean “Old Bourbon.” 
But the captain was not wholly made up of laughter and 
song, and, in one of his sober moments he had vaguely 
hinted to Miss Van Dorn of a mystery haunting the 
shores of Morgan’s Point. 

His words came to her with double force as she 


DONNA VENITA 


98 


stood on the guards of the little steamer, entranced with 
the scene before her, oblivious of her surroundings. 
The captain and all were forgotten until he again came 
to her side and smilingly said : 

“Miss Van Dorn, this is Morgan’s Point, and your 
friends are going to land. Will you ferret out the mys- 
tery here and make me the hero of your story, or will 
you go back to Houston?” 

Fully aroused, she made some repartee to the jocu- 
lar captain and they were soon safely landed and ere 
long domiciled in their cottage on the hill, where 
the waters of Galveston Bay to the southeast spread out 
as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with 
steamers, yachts, sloops, schooners and fishing smacks. 
Back from the house extended the forest just as it had 
stood for ages, unbroken even by the woodman’s axe. 
Dark almost with clinging vines and long, grey moss 
heavily draping the trees, as if it delighted in the title, 
“Curtain of Death,” bestowed on it by the natives. 

Everything here had a charm for Marguerite Van 
Dorn, and intoxicated with nature’s beauties, she drank 
deeper and deeper from her fountains. The ever rest- 
less sea, the dim, shadowy forest, surf bathing, etc., all 
were as invigorating as they were fascinating. Two 
weeks had gone by and every day had found her looking 
with longing eyes toward Castle de Leon. So much 
had she heard of the prince, his wonderful library, his 
rare collections from land and sea, that she thought of 
it by day and dreamed of it by night. But not once 
since the evening of their arrival had she been favored 
with a sight of either the prince or the princess. 


94 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


CHAPTER II. 

PRINCE AND PRINCESS. 

“It is morn on the bay — 

And night’s dark curtain is uprolled. 

All the grey east has turned to gold.” 

Marguerite Van Dorn wanders deep into the forest 
and ever and anon she catches glimpses of San Jacinto 
Bay. She can hear the waves break on the shore and in 
the distance she hears the plash, plash of oars. Nearer 
and nearer is the sound borne across the waters and 
through the sighing moss — now she hears distinctly a 
sad, sweet voice singing — 

“Juanita, Juanita, ask thy soul if we should part?” 

She is at the edge of the forest, not far from the 
monument, and coming toward her is the tiny bark with 
the same graceful figure and scarlet turbaned head that 
she had wished for an artist’s skill to paint, upon her 
first view of Morgan’s Point. 

It is the princess. The boat is made fast and with 
a Spanish “good-morning” she is by Miss Van Dorn’s 
side. Where had she seen those clear cut features, that 
olive complexion, and those liquid orbs? Memory went 
flitting back through a waste of years in search of some 
one, she knew not whom. This was only the beginning 
of a pleasant association. She found Donna Venita 
talented, educated, cultivated and refined, and in every 
way a congenial companion — as much English as French 
or Mexican. She had been educated in England, but 
received finishing touches in Paris and completed her 
musical course in Berlin. Honors had been paid her in 


DONNA VENITA 


95 


the highest European courts and often Miss Van Dorn 
found herself soaring in fancy with Donna Venita in 
ancient Mexico, beneath her sunny skies, or in some of 
the grand cities of the old world, sometimes they were 
in Rome or Athens, or, perhaps in Venice — bride of the 
sea — gliding in gondolas through her silent streets ; or 
sailing on old ocean in search of new adventures. 
There were no more lonely strolls for Miss Van Dorn 
through jungle-like forests. Donna Venita was ever 
with her, sailing on the bay or wandering on the beach. 
This evening they stood by the monument and Miss Van 
Dorn read the inscription aloud : 

“Sacred to the memory of little Leon.” 

She stood wondering, dreaming, when Donna 
Venita broke the silence. 

“Do you know, Miss Van Dorn, this little Leon in 
some way seems connected with my life? I cannot un- 
derstand it, and I tell Don Carlos that he knows more 
than he confides to me. I also tell him that I believe 
he comes here to do penance, but why he should I can- 
not imagine ; yet when the summers come around and 
our ‘outing’ is planned he always says he will go to 
Castle de Leon ; then he looks as sad as death and as 
grave. Here we have come almost as far back as I can 
remember, and for days after we reach here he paces the 
sands, always with that mournful expression in his face 
and a strange gleam in his eyes. 

“Don Carlos, or the prince, as the native call him 
here, is only my guardian. He has always kept a com- 
panion for me, and he has been mother, father, brother 
and sister to me. All I am I owe to him. I know 
nothing whatever of my parentage.” She drew 
nearer Miss Van Dorn’s side and laid her hand 


96 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


caressingly in hers. The latter looked down into the 
dark eyes, softened by unshed tears, and again visions 
of another flitted before her. Somewhere she had seen 
those eyes — that face. Just then a yacht came toward 
them, and a new beauty lighted up the girl’s counte- 
nance. 

“Don Carlos is coming,” she said, “and for us, Miss 
Van Dorn. I have sung your praises so much he is 
anxious to meet you.” 

The boat came to shore and soon Don Carlos, the 
prince, stood before them. Miss Van Dorn was intro- 
duced to his highness, and was invited out for a sail, 
and over to Castle De Leon. Oh! that delightful sail 
on San Jacinto Bay, with the musical tones of the prince 
falling on her ears like murmuring waters, and with the 
hand of the princess clasped lovingly in hers. Again 
she was haunted by those eyes, not unlike to orbs she 
had seen in a far away past. Who was it! Where had 
she seen them? again and again she asked herself, but 
no solution to the puzzling question could she gain. 

“Castle de Leon? Fairyland!” she could only ex- 
claim when she gazed on the flowers, the fountains play- 
ing in the sunlight and the birds of every clime singing 
to the soft, low music of the waters. The perfume of 
orange groves, bending with golden fruits, the library, 
the museum. One evening only created in her a thirst, 
a longing that would not be satiated, for the pleasures of 
Castle de Leon ; and the inmates were most happy 
to have her with them. Other members of the party 
were invited to the castle, but the friendship existing 
between Miss Van Dorn and Donna Venita seemed strong- 
est, and Don Carlos was only contented when contrib- 
uting to the happiness of the little princess. 


DONNA VENITA 


97 


Miss Van Dorn had spent a great portion of her time 
at Castle de Leon with the friends to whom she had be- 
come so much attached, and she had observed that her 
host was always gentle and tender toward Donna Venita, 
yet it was only the loving tenderness that a father would 
bestow on a child. But of late the princess had exhib- 
ited a coldness toward Don Carlos — a coldness that 
showed its iciness in every movement, and a vague un- 
rest shone in her eyes. Miss Van Dorn knew that some- 
thing unusual was going on in the girl’s nature; a some- 
thing that was transforming the light-hearted, winsome 
lass into a sad-eyed woman. But their stay at Morgan’s 
Point was drawing to a close. Summer had glided 
into autumn, and the following morning would find the 
pleasure-seekers homeward bound. 

For the last time, perhaps, Miss Van Dorn stood 
by the wave-kissed shore of San Jacinto Bay, and read 
on the marble shaft, “Sacred to the Memory of Little 
Leon.” Again she heard the oars and saw the flutter- 
ing of a red scarf — the princess was coming. Soon the 
latter was by her friend’s side. 

“Miss Van Dorn,” she said, in mournful tones, “I 
am going to leave Castle de Leon ; I am going to leave 
Don Carlos; out into the world I am going, fighting 
against fate. Don’t ask me any questions; I can only 
tell you that I am wicked, ungrateful. Don Carlos 
gratifies my every wish, surrounds me with every luxury 
wealth can procure, but that does not satisfy the crav- 
ings of the heart, nor does it bring happiness. I am 
going on the Eugene with you to Houston. I have 
money, Don Carlos keeps my purse well supplied, but I 
shall only take enough to pay my way until I can get 
employment ; I cannot live on my guardian’s bounty any 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


longer. I am going disguised, and when I reach my 
destination I shall seek a situation at once. I am edu- 
cated — I can do something. And now good-bye until 
the morrow;” and before Miss Van Dorn could reply 
Donna Venita was gone in the boat, gliding across the 
bay. She stood watching the light craft until the prin- 
cess seemed a mere speck, and then she wended her way 
homeward with the bewildering thought running rife 
in her brain, what was to be the future of Donna 
Venita? 

True to her word, a little black-robed figure repre- 
senting a sister of charity, sat by Miss Van Dorn’s side 
on the little steamer as they sailed up to Houston. For- 
tunately, a few days after their arrival Donna Venita 
found employment and went out on her duties. As with 
tearful eyes Miss Van Dorn clasped the little princess 
to her bosom, she wondered when and where would be 
their next meeting, nor was she prepared for what 
awaited a little further on. 

Soon after the departure of Donna Venita a letter 
came from Don Carlos telling Miss Van Dorn that he 
was indeed bereft; his little girl had fled from his pro- 
tecting care — none knew whither. He also sent the 
note that she had left for him. Donna Venita had 
wept when she wrote it. Don Carlos’ tears had fallen 
on its snowy page, and now Miss Van Dorn’s tears were 
falling like rain-drops as she read through a mist the 
following words: — 

“My Best Of Friends: — You don’t know how my 
heart is breaking, breaking, when I think I have looked on 
your face for the last time and how my tears are falling for 
you in your desolation, when you find your little girl is gone 
forever. Do not seek me. It is best that I go, and some 
day I hope to find that mother whose kisses once pressed 
my lips. Good-bye, good-bye. How can I write my last 
farewell ! But it must be so. It must be so. 

“Donna Venita.” 


DONNA VENITA 


99 


Miss Van Dorn answered with a letter of sympthy, 
and did she do wrong not to betray the little princess? 
She had pledged her word to the little creature, and she 
could not break it. So Don Carlos drifted on believing 
her both innocent and ignorant of the fate of Donna 
Venita. He had written her that he would search the 
world over to find her, and Miss Van Dorn believed that 
he would one day be successful. 


CHAPTER III. 



LOVED AND LOST 


Back through the ceaseless flow of eighteen years 
we will retrace our steps. It was in busy, picturesque 
Washington, and governors, embassadors, M. C’s., sen- 
ators, etc., had come to do honor to the president of the 
United States. The city was at its gayest, and it was 
the eve of one of the many receptions given at Senator 
Carville’s. A couple strolled leisurely on the broad bal- 
cony of the palatial mansion. 

With rich olive complexion, deep, dark eyes, full 
of a lurid light, the lady leaned on her companion’s arm 
drinking in all the poetry and song breathed in his 
musical tones and liquid orbs. This was Irma Carville, 
second daughter of Senator Carville, and her companion 
was Leon Bernardo, son of the Mexican embassador. 

“Would the senorita like to make her home where 
it is always summer? Where the flowers never cease to 
bloom, the birds never weary of song and the trees are 
ever bending w T ith luscious, golden fruits?” asked Leon 
Bernardo, as he paused in the onward march and looked 
down into the dark eyes, already under the magnetic 
influence of his own burning gaze. 


100 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


4 ‘Ah, I should fancy that I had reached the vale of 
Cashmere,” she replied. “But it would be so unlike to 
our clime I fear that the northern maiden would be like 
a flower transplanted, and would droop and die.” 

“Not if transplanted by the loving hands of one 
whose life, whose hope, w T hose joy, all centered in the 
treasure he would bear away to his sunny southern home. 
It is a land, my lady, of quaint old buildings, traditions, 
love and song. Soft-voiced maidens list to their lover’s 
lute, and knights kiss the hands of the veiled senoritas 
as they worship at the shrine of true devotion. Are we, 
who are reared beneath tropical skies, to blame for our 
passions? We learn lessons of love from the birds and 
flowers; we inherit jealousy and thirst for revenge from 
our ancestors. But with you to guide me, to inspire 
within me a desire for a higher life, to awaken within 
me noble aspirations, the fierce passions of jealousy and 
hatred might never be aroused. I dislike these traits in 
our people which we, perhaps, inherit to a greater degree 
than other nations, and which I have seen wreaked on 
victims to the fullest extent. Yet is our belief — a prin- 
ciple with us — if we are once betrayed, to be revenged, 
if the result be death both to the avenged and the aven- 
ger. The man who seeks not revenge falls in caste with 
his fellowmen. Our honor is at stake, be the offender 
man or woman.” 

A slight tremor ran through Irma Carville’s frame. 
Was the night air chill after coming from the heated 
rooms, or was she thinking of the two-edged sword with 
which she was playing? There was fascination in the 
voice, face and eyes of the Spaniard that led her on and 
on until he had declared himself and she had accepted, 
and a ring with glittering stones and some Mexican de- 
vices gleamed on her finger. 


DONNA VENITA 


101 


The season was almost over and Irma Carville had 
reigned queen of Washington society. So far she had 
been true to her Spanish lover, but the curtain rose on 
another scene in her life’s drama. Harry Vontresce, a 
lover whom she had left in her own native town, and to 
whom she had given her first love, appeared on the 
scene. She had no engagement with Leon Bernardo 
that afternoon, but he often came with his guitar and 
together they whiled away the evening hours. Harry 
and Irma were in the conservatory at her Washington 
home and Irma was telling him of the gay season. 

“And such a conquest, Harry, as I have made !” she 
said. “Do you see this ring? It was presented by the 
Mexican embassador’s son. You won’t be angry, Harry, 
when I tell you that I promised to wed him? You see 
I have been very aspiring. I did not know what new 
honors might await me a little further on. I thought, 
perhaps, he might turn out a prince, as the fairy stories 
go, but here you have come and spoiled all.” And her 
silvery laugh grated harshly on the Spaniard’s ears, as 
he stood without, clinching his guitar until a string 
snapped. 

“What was that, Harry?” 

“Perhaps it was one of the Mexican’s heartstrings,” 
and they both laughed. “You have treated your be- 
trothed, Harry Vontresce, pretty shabbily, Miss Carville, 
and what if I should play the part of deserter?” he said 
playfully. 

“Now, Harry, it was all in fun and you will forgive 
me,” she returned poutingly. 

“All right, my darling, we will kiss and make up,” 
and rollicking, warm-hearted Harry Vontresce and fickle 
Irma Carville little dreamed of the heart, crushed and 


102 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


bleeding, only a few steps distant, thirsting for the re- 
venge his race calls honor. 

Leon Bernardo had expected to find his lady love 
alone in the conservatory, when voices arrested his at- 
tention. He heard enough to know that he was the dupe 
of an American girl and turning on his heels, he vowed 
vengeance on her. He left Washington without again 
seeing the girl who had played him false. And ere long 
she, too, had gone to her northern home and wedded 
Harry Yontresce. 

Five years had gone by and their union had been 
blessed by the gift of a little girl with Irma’s face, hair 
and eyes. They called her Leon Bernardo Yontresce, 
for Irma had declared thas this was the only reparation 
that she could make for the way in which she had 
treated her Spanish lover and Harry, always happiest 
when complying with her wishes, readily consented. 
Little Leon was then three years old and as beautiful as 
a picture. 

Irma’s health was declining, and her physician ad- 
vised a change of climate, and to Morgan’s Point, where 
they could get the delightful breeze from the Gulf coast, 
they repaired. They had been there for weeks and Irma 
was much improved in both spirits and health. They 
had found the salt-water baths quite beneficial and were 
charmed with their surroundings. Morgan’s line of 
steamers were plying the waters from the Texas coast to 
New York, and they found something constantly to in- 
terest and amuse. Since the time of which we write 
railroads have found their way all over this grand old 
state, causing a suspension of this great steamship line. 
But a large ship had put in an appearance at that time, 
called Irma, the American queen. Harry had spoken to 


DONNA VENITA 


103 


the captain of this magnificent brig bearing his wife’s 
name, and he, in turn, was invited by the captain to 
come on board and take tea with them. Harry and Irma 
with little Leon, accepted the kind invitation and were 
entertained most royally. Where had Irma seen the 
captain? There was something in his voice that thrilled 
her as in the days of girlhood. But it could not be — 
this man who wore spectacles and a long, grey beard — 
she dispelled the thought. Days wore on and still the 
great craft hugged the southern coast. It was near the 
close of a summer’s afternoon; all day the air had been 
sultry, and now the clouds were gathering for a storm. 
The waves were tossing restlessly and their ceaseless 
beat on the shore, with the distant roar of the Gulf, had 
a weird, ominous sound. 

Janet, the maid, had taken little Leon for a stroll 
on the beach, a pretty flower had tempted her to leave 
the child a moment ; a little further on she went, glanc- 
ing back ever and anon to see that the little girl was 
safe. Janet was out of sight, but, of course, Leon would 
remain until she returned. Tired of waiting, little Leon 
went nearer the bay. She took off one shoe and stock- 
ing. The water almost kisses her feet. A tiny wave 
came and she clasped her little hands, crying: “Pretty 
water! pretty water !” 

Not far away landed a small boat, and a man leaped 
on shore. He looked around suspiciously. Leon ran to 
meet him crying : 

“Pretty boat, take Leon ride.” The man took her 
in his arms, muttering: 

“At last! at last! Revenge is sweet.” And he 
was soon in the boat, speeding on towards the ship that 
lay at anchor in the dusky twilight of Galveston Bay. 


104 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Janet had just time to return for her charge ere the 
storm broke with wildest fury over Morgan’s Point. 
Night settled down like a pall over the maddened waters, 
and naught could be seen through the midnight black- 
ness but a beacon light from Red Fish Bar, that seemed 
to touch both sea and sky. 

No trace of little Leon could be found save the little 
shoe and stocking, though a search was made through 
the driving storm for the lost child. The following 
morning dawned bright and beautiful on the bay, and 
far out at sea sailed the gallant ship on toward her des- 
tination. 

After a fruitless search, they gave up all hope, be- 
lieving little Leon had found a grave in the waters of 
San Jacinto Bay. Broken-hearted Irma found no more 
pleasure at Morgan’s Point. Back to her old home in 
Washington city she longed to go, and soon they w T ere 
homeward bound, leaving Texas and its allurements far 
behind. They had a monument erected to their darling, 
and there it stood, lone and silent, while the surging 
waters sang a requiem at ^he base, as its spire pointed 
Heavenward. 


CHAPTER IV. 

WRONGS ALL RIGHTED. 

Two years had passed since Donna Yenita and Miss 
Yan Dorn parted in Houston. Many changes had been 
wrought, and in the panorama of scenes through which 
they had passed, the two friends lost sight of each other. 
Miss Yan Dorn was once more in Washington city. The 
season was very gay and one of the reigning belles was 
a Miss Yontresce. A grand ‘reception was to be given 


DONNA VENITA 


105 


in her honor, and all Washington was astir over a vis- 
iting count. Miss Van Dorn attended the reception, 
and when Miss Vontresce entered a friend touched Miss 
Van Dorn’s arm and whispered: “The new beauty.” 
She turned and met the eyes of Donna Venita fixed upon 
her. She was soon by Miss Van Dorn’s side, and un- 
observed they stole into the conservatory and, clasped 
in each others arms, wept out their joy. Footsteps were 
heard. Miss Van Dora’s friend entered and introduced 
Count Bernardo. Will wonders ever cease? It was Don 
Carlos. 

Flushed and trembling, he and Donna Venita gazed 
at each other in mute astonishment. He opened his 
arms and Miss Van Dorn saw the deep, unspeakable love 
shining in the eyes of each. Tremulously, like the 
chords of a broken lute, he whispered : 

“Come, my life, my bride,” and Donna Venita 
went to him with hands outstretched in the shimmering 
light. He held her there and rained kisses on her eye- 
lids, lips and cheeks. 

The princess had much to tell them. Mrs. Lamar, 
the lady whom she accompanied from Houston to New 
York, was a sister to Mrs. Vontresce, and through Mrs. 
Lamar’s influence she secured a position as governess in 
the family of Mrs. Vontresce, to whom she grew so dear, 
and whom she resembled so much that she was adopted 
as their own daughter. 

And with the princess close beside her, as in the 
olden time at Morgan’s Point, Miss Van Dorn asked: 

“But tell me, my little friend, why you deserted 
the Castle de Leon, and left the guardianship of Don 
Carlos, your best of friends?” 

“Can you not guess, Miss Van Dorn?” she answered 


106 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


blushingly. “For love’s sake. A time came to me 
when I no longer loved Don Carlos as a father, but a 
strange infatuation took hold of me. I could not live 
in his presence day after day betraying his friendship, 
for I believed that he loved me only as a sister.” 

“You did not know my heart,” answered Don Car- 
los. “But I have a story to relate first and then I will 
tell you how much I loved you in those days. I would like 
to see Mr. and Mrs. Vontresce.” Donna Yenita brought 
them in and introduced Don Carlos as her guardian. 

“You do not recognize me,” he began, “and it is 
well, perhaps, that you do not. But listen to what I 
have to say, and voices from a dead past will tell you 
who I am. Back, back through the darkest years of 
my life you will go with me — when I was led on by a 
siren to the very threshold of perdition, when I crouched 
at her very feet a mere slave to be scorned, trampled on 
and rejected. But ten thousand fires were smouldering 
in my bosom, and the fiercest of all was revenge. Back 
to the brightest years of your life, Irma Carville, we 
'will also go ; when a wee darling nestled in your bosom 
and vras twined around every tendril of your heart. 
Back w T hen Irma, the American Queen, haunted the 
Texas coast; back to the time when sorrow, like a cloud 
of darkness, settled upon your heart — when you were 
childless. Out on the American Queen sailed your child. 
You had broken my heart, and I wanted to break yours 
just when every fibre of your being was interlaced with 
hers. I bided my time. Through the newspapers I 
kept informed of your whereabouts — distinguished 
people have a knack, you know,” he said ironically, “of 
getting their movements reported in the newspapers.” 

Irma Vontresce heard all with a strange mingling 


DONNA VENITA 


107 


of fear, remorse, sorrow and joy, saying, like one in a 
dream, — 

“You are — ” 

“Leon Bernardo, step-son of the Mexican embassa- 
dor, also the rejected Spaniard,” he answered. 

“But — my child — oh! in pity tell me of our little 
girl,” she pleaded. 

“Do not your hearts tell you that she is your little 
Leon?” and he pointed to Donna Venita. 

“Hear me through,” continued Don Carlos. “I am 
not a Spaniard, as you believed, nor a prince, Miss Van 
Dorn, as the natives of Morgan’s Point would have me, 
but I am of English birth and am in reality a count. 
My father, after moving to Mexico, lived only a brief 
while. My mother married the Mexican embassador. 
No children blessed the union, and my mother’s husband 
was to me a devoted father. He gave me his name and I 
bore it until you made me a wreck. Then I became a 
sea captain and was called Don Carlos. I was brought 
up in Mexico and believed the Mexicans to be my people, 
and thought I was seeking honor when I sought revenge. 
No father could have done more for a child than I have 
done for yours, save to give her a father’s love. But 
remorse did its work. What I at first exulted over became 
a great sorrow to me. Yet your little girl had a mission 
— she made me a better man, and I feel that my life is 
purer for having come in contact with hers. I intended 
to tell her of her parents and the wrong I had committed, 
and to go with her in search of them, but she could not 
wait.” 

“I wronged you most cruelly, Count Bernardo, and 
I plead for pardon,” said Irma Vontresce, as she rose 
and extended her hand. 


108 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“I forgive, as I hope to be forgiven,” he said, as he 
clasped her hand. “You do not doubt that Donna Ven- 
ita is your little Leon? if so I have more proof. The 
little shoe and stocking,” and he opened a casket. 
“Also these pictures,” exhibiting a medallion, encrusted 
with pearls, containing Irma and Harry’s pictures. 
“You remember this ring?” he said, pointing to a ring 
with the strange Mexican device, and suspended from 
the chain which w T as attached to the medallion. 

Ah, Irma remembered only too well, and the fatal 
evening she clasped the chain around the child’s neck. 

“Now the greatest trial of all is coming,” said the 
count. “I love Donna Venita, little Leon, more than I 
once loved you. I love her with a love that passes all 
understanding, but I have guarded it so well that she 
left me believing that I knew her secret and did not re- 
ciprocate her affection. Even Miss Van Dorn did not 
know that I loved this little maiden ! Now, Donna Ven- 
ita, always Donna Venita to me, decide which it shall 
be, mother and father, or Leon Bernardo.” 

“Oh! Don Carlos, my only love, I cannot give you 
up.” She went to his side, and he put his arms around 
her and held her in a close embrace. 

“I know you love me, my little countess,” he said, 
“but it is best to give you up to your parents for a year. 
Go into society, perhaps you may find some one better 
suited to your years, if so I will yield you into his sacred 
keeping. 1 will not write to you during my absence ; I 
will bind you with no promise, but at the expiration of 
that time I will come back and if your heart is still true 
to me I shall claim you.” 

Count Leon Bernardo took his departure and no 
more was heard of him. Donna Venita led a gay, fash- 


DONNA VENITA 


109 


ionable life. She had many suitors, hut to all she gave 
the same answer, and a weary longing was in her eyes 
all the while. The year soon sped by and brought the 
Count’s return. There was a grand wedding and a trip 
to Europe ; Miss Van Dorn, Harry and Irma accompany- 
ing them. Then back they came to Castle de Leon, but 
across San Jacinto Bay gleamed no marble shaft. The 
natives said a terrible storm had swept across Morgan’s 
Point, and the monument sacred to the memory of little 
Leon had gone out to sea. 


HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL. 


’Twas evening, the summer lay dying, 

And autumn with banners unfurled, 

In purple, and scarlet, and golden, 

Made brilliant a beautiful world ; 

The mountains loomed grey in the distance 
And misty were river and dell, 

The sunset gleamed bright thro’ the forest, 

As weaving a magical spell. 

The twilight stole soft thro’ the casement, 

And shadows lay deep on the floor, — 

An angel now paused on the threshold, 

Whose wings swept the wide-open door; 
For weeks we had watched our pale sulf’rer, 
With ever a prayer on our lips, — 

What suppliant knoweth prayer’s answer, 
Who the cup of bitterness sips? 

The death angel stood by the bed-side, 

And kissed down her eye -lids to sleep, 
Then over the dark waters bore her 
And left us in sorrow to weep ; 

Oh! the heart-throbs, the anguish, the pining 
For the face now so cold and so still, 

For the babe that had lain in our bosom, 

That went at the dear Father’s will. 


110 


HE DOETH ALL THINGS WELL 


111 


Our offering we laid on God’s altar, 

With anguish no mortal can tell, 

But we felt his strong arm* were around us, 
And knew that he doeth things well ; 

We laid our weak hands in the Master’s, 

And gave him our darling to keep, 

We knew in his arms she was resting, 

For he giveth his loved ones sleep. 

All hail to the name of the Master, 

The Master thorn-crowned and oppressed, 
Who conquered the grave and its terrors, 

And gave to his loved ones rest ; 

Our heart-strings vibrate with a sadness, 

Our cradle is empty to-day, 

He sendeth us blessings and sorrows, 

He giveth, He taketh away. 

The forests are ablaze with a splendor, 

With treasures of em’r’ld and gold; 

But our darling is safe in that city 

Whose glories have never been told; 

He gives to the faithful his promise, 

To those who have passed thro’ the strife, 
With faith for their anchor have trusted, 

From death they shall pass unto life. 

*T0 MRS. ROSA MONTGOMERY HAYS. 


MARGUERITE’S HOME-COMING. 


When Marguerite Prescott took upon herself the 
marriage vows and became the wife of Albert Norton 
the wise people of the little town of Pemberton shook 
their heads ominously and said it w’as the worst day’s 
work she had ever done. A few brief years would end 
her career, and, a broken hearted wife, she would find 
an early grave. Did she not know the man to whom she 
was bartering her young life? Had no friend told her 
of his life of dissipation, and how, more than once, he 
had seen snakes in his boots, for had he not been a vic- 
tim of delirium tremens? 

Others said how fortunate for Marguerite Prescott 
that she had won the well-to-do bachelor, Albert Norton. 
Was he not a prominent grocer in the rising town of 
Pemberton; did he not have a nice new home in which 
to install his bride, and, if he would drink a little too 
much sometimes, what did that amount to? Could not 
the same be said of a host of men, and did not prosperi- 
ty attend them? Besides, Albert Norton bad reformed 
and become a member of the Cumberland Presbyterian 
church, and he was a good catch for any poor girl. 

The wiser heads said he had not had time since his 
reformation to prove himself, and it was not safe for a 
bright young life to trust her destiny to a reformed 
drunkard. 


112 


MARGUERITE’S HOME-COMING 


113 


Marguerite had heard both sides of the story. All 
the gossipers’ gossip had been poured into her listening 
ears, but she heeded none of it. She had plighted her 
troth to Albert Norton, she loved him and she meant to 
marry him, let the people say what they would. 

Her lines had not fallen in pleasant places. She was 
the eldest of a large family of children, and at an early 
age she had had to go out and battle with the world. 
Her father was an invalid and her mother very delicate, 
so on her weak shoulders devolved grave responsibilities. 
And when she came to Pemberton to fill a position she 
had procured, little did she dream of meeting her fate 
and of being an instrument in God’s hands for good. 

Though adverse circumstances had made her a 
bread-winner, she had not been shorn of her right- 
ful heritage. Her graceful manners, her proud, elastic 
step, and her bright, piquant face all bespoke the in- 
born lady that she was. So when Albert Norton led her 
to the altar, and after their bridal tour, they were domi- 
ciled in their new home, the Silver Poplars, he felt that 
he was the most fortunate of men. 

How time sped by on golden pinions, and how 
blissfully happy they were! How could the tempter 
find their Eden with love so pure, so holy as theirs to 
guide and to guard them. Now a bright little boy came, 
a tie to bind their hearts more closely together, and 
Marguerite felt doubly secure in her husband’s love. 
Little Barry, the babe, would keep the tempter at bay, 
and never, never would he invade their sanctuary. 

So many blessings came to fill her cup of happiness 
that the evil she had most dreaded became a thing of the 
past, a something she had put far away from her, a 
sorrow that could not be her portion now. How little 


114 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


do we realize that often when the sunshine seems bright- 
est shadows may soon fall deepest. 

Little Barry was now a year old, and Marguerite 
had long anticipated a visit home to mother. So ar- 
rangements were perfected and Mr. Norton bade adieu 
to his loved ones as he saw them start on their journey. 
He did not realize the depth of his affection for his 
treasures until he returned to his now desolate home. 
The last days of a bright September were tinging the 
trees with scarlet and gold, and the last rays of the dy- 
ing sunset burnished the windows, casting over all a 
brilliant glory. How lovely his home looked as he went 
up the broad walk ; but no sweet faced woman stood at 
the door to give him welcome. When he entered no 
childish prattle, no patter of little feet greeted him. He 
put sad thoughts from him ; all this was for Marguerite’s 
happiness, and he must be brave and endure the loneli- 
ness for a while. She said she would write often, and 
those letters would cheer him during her long stay. She 
had promised to write almost every day, for little Barry 
had contracted a cold, and it was only with the permis- 
s on of the family physician that he had been willing 
for the visit to be made at this time. 

Alas for husband ! Alas for wife ! Alas that so much 
trouble has been caused by the mails and the males ! 
The following evening was to bring a letter, how could 
he wait for morning to dawn? All night with loneliness 
of heart he had tossed on his pillow, and when he fell 
asleep it was to dream of Marguerite and Barry. Even- 
ing came at last and the mail, but it brought no letter 
to the disconsolate husband. Day after day passed until 
the long, lonely hours were unenlurable, and still no 
letter came. Then the gossipers began their devastating 


MARGUERITE’S HOME-COMING 


115 


work, and it was borne to Albert Norton’s ears until he 
became crazed and knew not himself. 

Some said Marguerite would never return, for they 
had heard her say she only had married old Norton for 
his money, others said they had separated for he had 
become angry with her for beginning a course in music, 
and she had become incensed at him for refusing to buy 
her a piano. So on and on the gossip went until the 
whole town, and even the neighboring towns bemoaned 
the fate of the once happy pair. Desolate at home, deso- 
late everywhere, for surcease of sorrow Albert Norton 
went back to the cup. And thus the tempter came. 

Now when maddened by drink, when unable to ap- 
preciate news from the loved ones, letters began to come. 
Letters that had lain in the office, having been put in 
another’s box, were now delivered to the rightful owner, 
but too late, the work was done. And poor little Mar- 
guerite grieved and wondered why no answer came to 
her letters. Was her husband ill, or what could be the 
matter? He, in his desperation, cursed his wife, cursed 
his child, and vowed that he would never take them 
back, would never look on their faces again. 

While these things were assuming their worst form, 
Mr. Conner, Albert Norton’s cousin, wired Marguerite 
to come home immediately. Still in ignorance of what 
awaited her, she answered the summons at once. On 
reaching Pemberton Marguerite went first to Mr. Con- 
ner’s home. Pale with fear, she could scarcely command 
her voice to ask of Mrs. Conner, who met her at the 
gate, what was the great trouble. 

“Marguerite,” said Mrs. Conner, as she conducted 
her in and placed her arms lovingly around her, “you 
must be brave and try to bear what I have to tell you. 


116 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Cousin Albert has gone back to the wine cup, and has 
been raving like a madman for several days. He says 
he will never see you and Barry again ; said you should 
never come back.” 

“Oh, Cousin Allie, did Mr. Norton say that?” and 
sobs shook the little frame as she gathered her child 
closer. “What has caused all this?” she asked through 
her tears. 

“No letters came from you, Marguerite, and evil 
tongues set to work to poison his mind against you.” 

“And I wrote every day as I promised.” 

For a moment Marguerite sat in deep thought, then 
she said: 

“Cousin Allie, I love Mr. Norton, he loves me, he 
loves Barry ; I will not give him up, he shall not give 
me up. I will save him. Now I am going home; you 
go with me and we will make everything as cheerful and 
home-like as possible.” 

Mrs. Conner was not prepared for the great cour- 
age that shone out in Marguerite in this first fiery or- 
deal. Soon they were at Silver Poplars and all trace of 
the absentees was removed. Cheerful fires blazed on the 
hearths, and soon Marguerite was busy preparing sup- 
per, while Barry played on the carpet. 

Mrs. Conner went home, but promised to return ere 
long. Soon after her arrival she heard the unsteady 
step and coarse laugh of the drunken husband. Going 
to the gate she said joyfully : 

“Cousin Albert, I have good news for you. Mar- 
guerite and Barry have come. Don’t you want to see 
them?” 

“I do not,” he said, “and I will never see them 
again.” 


MARGUERITE’S HOME-COMING 


117 


“Why, Cousin Albert, you know you love little 
Barry, and Marguerite, too, and you will go with me to 
see them.” 

“Yes, I did love them, but a man can be driven to 
desperation until he does not know what love is. I tell 
you, and I mean what I say, I will never speak to them, 
nor w T ill I ever look on their false cruel faces again.” 

“Come Cousin Albert, I am going home with you, 
and you will take back to your heart your wife and 
child, for Mar guerite still loves you and is innocent of 
anything for which you may blame her.” 

“What, go home with me?” he said as he reeled by 
her side ; “people will talk about it.” 

“I do not care what people say,” she answered, “I 
am going home with you.” 

So onward they went, he reeling from side to side, 
persisting in his determination never to speak to his 
wife and child. When they reached the veranda Barry, 
hearing footsteps, sprang up from his play, and, with 
little arms outstretched, went crying: 

“Papa! papa! !” 

In a moment all the father love surged through the 
heart and brain of Mr. Norton, and opening his arms, 
little Barry was gathered to his bosom ; but a light step 
was heard and Marguerite, brave little -Marguerite stood 
by his side. 

“Have you no welcome for me?” she asked, and 
throwing the other arm around her he drew her to him 
and kissed her as if he were loath to give her up. 

Mrs. Conner stole softly out and home to tell Mr. 
Conner of their joyous re-union. Later on she went 
again to see how they were getting along. She found 
them sitting on the veranda in the twilight, Barry on 


118 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


one knee and Marguerite on the other, and she knew 
from their low cooing, happy tones that Marguerite, 
Barry and the husband had anchored safe at home. 

But what a life spread out for Marguerite. She saw 
it and chose the right path. She at once united with 
the church and became a worker in the Lord’s vineyard. 
She became a teacher in the Sunday School, and is 
throwing in her mite in every way, hoping the Lord will 
give her the fondest of her wishes. Her husband accom- 
panies her to church, and we pray with Marguerite that 
this reformation may be for all time; that he may 
look to his brave, true little wife and his innocent child, 
and for their sakes, never allow the tempter to gain an 
entrance into his life. 


TO MY MOTHER IN HEAYEN. 


Sweet mother, long has been the day 
Since your dear presence cheered our home, 
And I in love did look on you 
With hope of many happy years 
Of sweet companionship together. 

Alas, for cherished hopes! 

To-day 

You sleep by father’s side with those 
Who long have slept at our old home, — 
There where the blooming myrtle twines 
Its tendrils round the cold grey stones ; 

And birds flit o’er the silent graves 
And sing their songs of praise to God. 

’Tis spring, and odors scent the air, 

Glad notes from all the groves resound, 

All nature’s joyous. Only I, 

My darling mother, I am sad, 

I miss your words of love and cheer, 

And lone I tread life’s weary way. 

I long the silent night throughout, 

And all the dreary day for you ! 

But you are happy, mother dear, 

With all the blest in that bright land 
Where you have gone. 


119 


120 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


I wonder oft 

How great the distance is to you, 

And o’er and o’er again I ask 

The selfsame question, — “Oh, how far?” 

And then 1 wonder, too, how long 

The time ere I to you shall go 

And you will clasp me to your heart 

And press upon my lips the kiss 

Of sweet good-night. Your voice would be 

To me the sweetest music ear 

Has ever heard, — ah, passing sweet! 

Oh, mother dear, you do not know 
The anguish heart and brain of mine 
Have undergone since that dark night 
You went away, the bitter tears 
Your child has wept, for life and hope 
And joy went out when death his hand 
Laid on the form I loved so well. 

That yearning’s ever at my heart; 

When settles night o’er all the earth 
I lay me down, then comes the thought, — 

The stifling thought, “My mother’s dead!” 
When dawns the rosy morn, and gleams 
Of gold athwart my casement stream, 

The mournful wail escapes my lips, 

The burning tears my pillow bathe, — 

The thought o’erwhelms me, — “Mother’s dead 
And all the years to come I’ll know 
No mother’s love!” 

What faith was mine 
When fervent prayers I sent to God 
'That he would spare my mother! 


TO MY MOTHER IN HEAVEN 


121 


In grief I cried, “Thy will, O God, 

Not mine be done.’’ The Father smiled 
And through the clouds held out his hand. 
The way was dark — I see it now 
But could not then — into the light 
He would have led me had I known 
His meaning! Foolish me, I thought 
My will was His and He would grant 
My prayer. I thought He meant once more 
To give you back, my mother dear, 

Whose life hung on a brittle thread 
At His free will to give or take. 

But He had come for you, my own, — 

In love His hand to me He gave 
To lead me through the mist of tears. 

The angel came, you said, “Good-bye,” 
And went with him to heaven and God; 
While I, heart-broken, knelt me down ; 

I could not pray, my faith was gone. 

The faith on which I’d built 
My highest hopes of heaven’s bliss 
Lay now in ruins at my feet. 

I lost God’s hand, I lost my faith, 

I lost my darling mother. All — 

All was gone! And my dead self 
Alone remained. Dead to hope, 

Ambition, — everything save one 
Corroding thought, “Mother’s dead.” 

The days passed on, grew into weeks, 
E’en months went by, I scarce know how, 
So blind with tears my eyes have been. 

'The old clock chimes the hours away, 


122 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


The seasons come and go the same, 

The flowers bloom, the birds sing on, 

And still your child mourns all the while. 
That pain tugs at my heart to-night 
And whispers “Mother’s still away.” 
***** 

Hope’s come at last, I’m not alone, 

For faith, sweet faith, lights up my path, 
My mother’s home’s not far away. 

“I view the span of life” and catch 
A glimpse of happiness beyond. 

And though ’tis past the power of words 
To paint, or tongue to tell how much 
I want you, mother, God’s grace 
Shall bear me up. Up there we’ll meet, 
And death no more shall part us. 


LOYE AT HAZEL BROOK. 


The last beams of the rosy west burnished the win- 
dows of Hazel Brook like shining gold. “How beauti- 
ful!” exclaimed a young girl who satina grapevine 
swing that hung in a grove of maples across the road 
opposite the house. 

It was a balmy evening in early summer, and robed 
in white with the breezes playing among her golden 
curls, she little dreamed of the artistic picture she was 
making until she heard the echo of her own words, 
“How beautiful,” and B. Livingston stood by her side. 

“Oh! B., how you frightened me,” she said, and the 
little hands went up to screen her eyes, as she paused in 
her slow swinging. 

“Did I frighten you very much, little sweet-heart?” 
he asked eagerly. “Why, how nervous you must be!” 

“Yes, I am nervous, for my father has been so an- 
gry with me, B., and he never gave me a cross word 
before.” 

“It is all because I love you,” said B. 

“Yes, that is one reason; the other is because I re- 
fuse to marry Lynn Merton. My father has told me never 
to speak to you again, and oh ! it is so hard when I love 
you so, and when I have never disobeyed him.” 

“What are his objections to me, Gertie?” 

“He says that you are a fortune hunter.” 

123 


124 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


The man’s lips curled in scorn. 

“A fortune hunter, indeed,” he said. “It is my 
poverty then that is the barrier, and yet, Gertie, so great 
is my love I would ask you to share even grim poverty 
with me.” 

“And most willingly would I share beggary with 
you, but my fatherVwill I cannot go against, B.,” she 
exclaimed excitedly. “You must leave me now, I hear 
my father’s voice, and if he should find you here I shud- 
der to think what might be the result.” 

“I do not fear him, sweet girl,” answered B., ‘ but 
for your sake I will go. This is not our last meeting, 
however. When shall I see you again?” 

“Oh, I do not know,” she answered, “only go now 
for he will surely come.” 

B. Livingston bade her a hasty adieu and strode 
across the fields toward home. 

Hazel Brook was a cozy little cottage on the borders 
of a beautiful woodland that extended across the road 
in a northerly direction. Southward spread out the 
broad acres of the proud owner of this rural home. 
Through its fields and fallows meandered a babbling 
stream called Hazel Brook from which the homestead 
took its name. Gasper Hastings was the owner of some 
of the richest lands in Western Kentucky. Only one 
child graced their downy nest, and for her Mr. and Mrs. 
Hastings had the brightest hopes. Gentle, blue-eyed 
Gertie Hastings. Truly. 

“None knew her but to love her. None named her 
but to praise.” Bright, beautiful and accomplished, the 
idle of doting parents, nothing but happiness should 
have beamed in the future for one so deserving. But she 
was peculiarly constituted; frail as some rare exotic, the 


LOVE AT HAZEL BROOK 


125 


slightest breath of reproof would crush her like a flower 
blighted by the early frost of autumn. Yet her loving 
father did not understand the frailty of the fair being 
who revered, loved and trusted him, believing his will 
was law. Nor had she ever had occasion to oppDse that 
iron will until B. Livingston became one of her many ad- 
mirers. 

B. was a worthy young man of good family, but un- 
fortunately for his future prospects, his father boasted 
not of the wealth that made Gasper Hastings imperi- 
ously proud ; and for this reason alone B. Livingston was 
not a welcome visitor at Hazel Brook. 

B. and Gertie had met at a social gathering in the 
neighborhood and it was a case of love at first sight, but 
they little dreamed toward what that love would tend. 

Among Gertie Hastings’ most ardent admirers, and 
the one most favored by her father was Lynn Merton, 
a rich young farmer whose lands adjoined the Hastings 
estate. Often had Gasper Hastings looked on these 
wide spreading acres with swelling emotions akin to 
pride as he thought of his lovely daughter being mis- 
tress of Lynn Merton’s home. 

But Lynn Merton was not the idol that Gertie had 
reared up in her heart. There was a coarseness in his 
very being that spoke only too plainly of how his whole 
nature went out grasping for the sordid things of earth. 
Very unlike was he to the handsome, refined B., who 
was as gentle as a woman and knew the delicate, sensi- 
tive nature of Gertie. 

For awhile the lovers were allowed to drift peace- 
fully onward toward that mystical isle where all is 
enchantment and every dream is an elysian of happiness. 

But they suddenly awakened to the true state of 


126 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


affairs, or perhaps B’s rival, with his evil insinuations, 
began to poison the father’s mind; at any rate barriers 
rose up, clouds overshadowed their calm sea, and Gertie 
realized that her father’s will was as unchangeable at the 
law of the Medes and Persians. 

Gertie Hastings w^atched the receding form of B. 
Livingston as ever and anon he looked back to catch a 
glimpse of one he loved so well. Now he was lost to 
view and she wended her way across the dusty road to 
the house. At the gate her father awaited her with a 
sterner countenance than she had ever seen him wear 
before. 

“Gertie, is that B. Livingston going across the mea- 
dows?” he asked angrily. 

“Yes sir,” she answered nervously. 

“And you have met him clandestinely after I had 
forbidden you speaking to him?” 

“I did not know he was coming this evening,” she 
answered through her tears. 

“Girl, will you never learn that I am not to be tri- 
fled with? Whether you did or did not know, understand 
me this once for all time. If I ever catch B. Livingston 
speaking to you, or ever catch him on my grounds I will 
shoot him is he falls dead at your feet.” 

“Oh! Father!” pityingly cried the girl. 

“None of your nonsense, girl; I have determined 
that you shall marry Lynn Merton, and you will find ere 
long that I am not to be swerved from my purpose.” 

“Marry Lynn Merton, father, I would die first.” 
And in the girl’s eyes was a look of determination not 
unlike her father’s, as trembling in every limb she fled 
to her mother’s side and buried her face in her lap. She 
did not know her father in this new phase of character, 


LOVE AT HAZEL BROOK 


127 


and in her fear she shrank from him as she had never 
been wont to do. 

Mrs. Hastings could only stroke her child’s hair, 
lovingly, tenderly, showing by this act that her heart 
was with her even if no comforting words escaped her 
lips. The mother had seen her husband’s fierce nature 
aroused before, and she knew her influence at this stage 
could have no effect. 

If Mr. Hastings missed the merry voice that hither- 
to made music at Hazel Brook, no one knew it, and if 
Gertie’s good-night kiss no longer lingered on his lips 
and her soft arms no more stole caressingly around his 
neck none were any wiser ; and if the little pale face and 
listless step awakened a feeling of regret he kept it to 
himself. 

Weeks rolled by and not once had the lovers met, 
but fate decreed this estrangement should come to an 
end and they met by chance at the home of a mutual 
friend. 

“Oh, Gertie, this life is intolerable,” said B., clasp- 
ing Gertie’s hand warmly in his own broad palms. 
Either you must fly with me or I must go away forever. 
I cannot live day by day with you so near and yet so 
far. Why will you not defy your father’s power and 
become my wife at once?” 

“Do not ask me, dear B.,” she sadly answered, “al- 
ready my cross is too heavy to be borne. Do not urge 
me ; you know my first duty is to my parents.” 

“But the Bible says, ‘Leave father and mother.’ ” 

“Yes, and it also says, ‘Children obey your par- 
ents,’ and if I refuse to marry Lynn Merton, and go with 
you against my father’s will my sin would be double.” 

“My poor little tired darling, if only I could per- 


128 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


suade you to see as I do,” said B., drawing her to his 
side. 

“That you will never do, for much as 1 love you I 
cannot go against my father’s will. Besides, I will not 
be here long. Do you not see how pale I am grow- 
ing?” 

“Oh! life is so hard!” he said, as he brushed away 
his tears; “but let us look on the bright side, there may 
yet be a rift in the clouds.” 

“I haven’t much hope of my father’s relenting, ’’she 
answered sadly, “but we can only trust and pray.” 

“I have determined to brave his displeasure this 
evening, and with your consent will escort you home.” 

“Oh! B., I have such grave fears as to what the 
consequences might be.” 

“I will brave everything if you will allow me to ac- 
company you.” 

Gertie reluctantly consented and soon they were 
driving leisurely towards her home. But suddenly a 
horseman came dashing towards them. 

“My father!” whispered Gertie, and Mr. Hastings 
rode up, grasping the reins in one hand, while in the 
other he held a revolver which he pointed at the breast 
of B. Livingston. 

“Oh! Father! Father !” screamed Gertie, while B. 
looked the man unflinchingly in the eye. 

For a moment Hastings quailed under B’s gaze, his 
horse gave a sudden plunge, almost prostrating his ri- 
der and the weapon fell harmlessly to the ground. 

B’s horse started oflt at a rapid pace, and soon B. 
had the pleasure of depositing Gertie in safety at her 
own gate. 

Presently Mr. Hastings rode up livid with rage. 


LOVE AT HAZEL BROOK 


129 


“B. Livingston,” he said, in tones husky with an- 
ger, “this is the last chance I shall give you. Address 
another word to my daughter and it will be at your 
peril.” 

“I love your daughter, Mr. Hastings, and I have 
honorable intentions. Be assured that I shall speak to 
and endeavor to see her at every opportunity. I do not 
fear you nor Lynn Merton either,” and with that he 
drove off, leaving Hastings clinching his hands and 
stamping furiously. 

“I will outwit him yet,” he muttered, “and Gertie 
shall become Lynn Merton’s wife to-morrow, or B. Liv- 
ingston shall die.” 

But on the morrow Gertie was unable to leave her 
room, and a few days after B. Livingston left for a dis- 
tant city; anything was preferable to bringing sorrow 
on the one woman he loved. If he lived near her he 
must see her and in this event it was death, perhaps to 
both. He could not say good-bye, only in the loving 
message he sent her. 

After weeks of illness Gertie arose, a mere shadow, 
a'complete wreck of her former self. B. had not returned, 
on the contrary he had secured a good position and was 
doing well. Yet the memory of this first and only love 
was ever present with him. Gertie often spent her 
evenings at the grapevine swing, weeping over their 
separation and her father’s cruelty. Day by day she 
faded. Then there came a time when she could no 
longer leave her room. 

After months of pleading with her father he finally 
consented that B. should come to see her. 

B. Livingston was at home, spending the holidays 
when a little note was handed to him. He read it 


180 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


with a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. It ran 
thus : 

“Dear B., 

“After months of vain pleadings to once more see your 
face ere my eyes are forever sealed by the icy fetters of 
death, my father has at last consented for you to come. Do 
not delay, he may revoke his promise, and then you may 
never see me on earth again. But up there— up there B. — 
they say partings do not come. 

“Will you come to your dying 

“Gertie.” 

Soon after the perusal of this note B. was on his way 
to the bedside of sweet Gertie Hastings. As he drew 
near Hazel Brook the gloomy surroundings had for him 
sad forebodings. Had death preceded him, and was he 
too late? The wintry winds sighed mournfully through 
the woodland. The grapevine swing, where in their 
early love they had spent so many happy hours, swayed 
to and fro, and there was a chill of sadness hovering 
over all. 

He was met at the door by Mrs. Hastings, whose 
tear-stained face whispered his worst fears. She pressed 
his hand in silence and led him to Gertie’s room. May 
Herndon, Gertie’s cousin, sat by her bedside. She arose, 
bowed in recognition to B., and pointed to the seat she 
had vacated. Gertie’s eyes were closed, and with break- 
ing heart, B. saw only too plainly the great change that 
had been wrought since last they met. 

He went around to her side ; she opened her eyes 
with the glad cry, “Oh! B., have you come at last!” She 
raised her arms and they fell around his neck. “At 
last,” she whispered, “at last!” as she nestled in his 
arms. 

Convulsive sobs shook the strong man’s frame as 
he held her close and tried to suppress his emotions. 


LOVE AT HAZEL BROOK 


131 


“Lay me back on the pillows now B.,” she faintly 
whispered, “and sit close beside me for I am drifting 
away from you. Don’t cry,” she would whisper softly, 
as with her little thin hands she stroked his bearded 
face. “Don’t cry B., perhaps it will not belong before 
you join me in that beautiful land. I shall watch and 
wait for your coming, and if it be very, very long ere 
you come do not forget me, for I shall be ever near you. 
Think of me often and believe that as your guardian 
angel I am watching over you. Perhaps a time may 
come when you will feel my presence. Have you been 
true to me all this long time, B.? Sometimes when cousin 
May would write so much of you in the great city a 
little sadness would creep into my heart and I would 
think B. does not love poor Gertie any more.” 

“Oh! Gertie, how could you doubt me?” B. ques- 
tioned. “Never for one moment has your image left my 
heart. Now promise me that you will try to get well for 
my sake, won’t you?” 

“No, B., there is no hope. I am dying now. See, 
my hands are icy. But I do not fear, in Heaven I shall 
find sweet rest, and God is calling me home. I think 
how desolate you will be for a long time. It may be 
years that I will have to wait for your coming. I have 
thought that if you and Cousin May could love each 
other, that would brighten your life when I am gone.” 

“Gertie, I cannot give you up,” said the tremulous 
voice of B. 

“You must not talk that way. Be brave and try 
to be resigned, believing that it is all for the best. 
Remember that ‘the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh 
away ’ Tell mother, father and May to come. I feel 
so strangely. It must be death.” 


132 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


The parents and May entered at B.’s bidding, and 
stood around the couch of the dying girl. 

“Darling mother, you have been so kind, so good 
and always so true to your little Gertie. Father, you 
have killed your child ; you parted B. and me on earth, 
but you cannot part us above, we w T ill be re-united there. 
May God forgive you, father, as I forgive the great 
wrong you have done us.” 

Grim and immovable sat Mr. Hastings. Mrs. Hast- 
ings held Gertie’s hand, weeping bitterly. 

“Bury me in the orchard, mother, near the dear old 
grapevine swing where B. can often visit my grave. At 
my funeral sing my favorite song, ‘There is Rest at 
Home.’ I am going now. Kiss me good-bye, father, 
it has been so long since I felt your kisses rest upon my 
lips. Heaven bless you,” she said, as he bent over and 
kissed her. “Now May, while I clasp your hand in B.’s 
I give you to him. Now mother, and last let B.’s kisses 
rest upon my lips,” she whispered in faltering tones. 
B.’s kiss was indeed the last. There was a convulsive 
shudder — and Gertie Hastings’ spirit went to God. 

On the following day B. was called back to the city, 
and could not attend Gertie’s burial. Beautiful in 
death, Gertie lay in the wreath-entwined casket, and as 
B. gazed on her for the last time he felt that she was 
too pure for earth and had been transplanted to fairer 
climes. 

It seems that Mr. Hasting’ hatred forB. Livingston 
had not abated. With dead Gertie in the house and her 
request fresh in his memory, he would not even allow 
her to sleep where B. could often visit her grave. So he 
determined to have her remains interred in the cemetery 
at Casey, where the waters of the broad Ohio could sing 


LOVE AT HAZEL BROOK 


133 


a requiem over her grave. The day of the burial was 
dark and gloomy, rain drops kissed the earth softly, ten- 
derly as if all nature were weeping in monotones for lost 
Gertie. 

The waters of the Ohio were far over the banks — so 
far that no travelling was done from Hazel Brook to 
Casey save by small boats. The girl’s remains were 
placed in a boat with a neighbor and Lynn Merton at 
the helm. Mr. Hastings sat near the coffin. Slowly 
they went down Hazel Brook. 

“The dead steered by the dumb.” 

With weeping eyes the mother and cousin watched 
the little craft out of sight. 

After Gertie’s burial Mr. Hastings became a changed 
man. Remorse seemed to take possession of him, and 
listlessly, aimlessly, he wandered around until disease 
seized upon him. 

Lynn Merton became dissipated and gambled with 
a high hand until all his wealth was swept away. A 
ruined man, he left the state, it is hoped to retrieve his 
fortune in an honest way. 

Mr. Hastings lingered several months, and during 
this time he had repented deeply of his great sin. He 
sent for B. and entreated his forgiveness. In his last 
hours he wanted B. always near him. When he was 
laid away to rest and his will was read it was found 
that all his estate was left to B. Livingston, except the 
ample provision he had made for his wife. 

Many years had come and gone. A beautiful resi- 
dence has taken the place of the cottage at Hazel Brook. 
It is the home of B. and May, for May is now B.’s wife. 
Mrs. Hastings, a sad, sw’eet-faced woman, lives wdth 
them. Across the road, in the orchard, where the grape- 


134 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


vine swing used to hang, gleam in the morning sun two 
beautiful monuments. One is sacred to the memory of 
Gertie Hastings, for her remains have been removed, and 
the other is to Jasper Hastings. Side by side the father 
and the daughter sleep. 

Two beautiful children make merry now at Hazel 
Brook. The eldest, a boy, they call Gasper, while the 
other is a girl, called Gertie Hastings Livingston. 


AWAKENED. 


M. T. TO C. W. 

Take back the pledge of friendship 
That once you gave to me, 

And in the past forever 
Our broken ties will be. 

’Twas but a passing fancy, 

A blissful summer's dream, 

That flashed upon our pathway. 
Like a meteoric gleam. 

Every token of remembrance 
Is yours, not mine, to keep, 

And with the happy by-gones 
Let our fitful idjl sleep. 

’Twas but a heart’s devotion 
You won and cast away, — 

A chapter in life’s lesson 
We’re learning every day. 

I say good-bye with sadness — 

A sadness full of tears — 

For, light as you may deem it, 

It has burdened me with years. 
I grieve not for your friendship, 
Though it was passing sweet, — 
I sigh because my trust in you, 

Lies withered at my feet. 

135 


THE OLD STONE STEPS. 


In my fancy I sit on the old stone steps, 

Where so often in childhood I rested from play, 

’Neath the broad-spreading boughs of the tall locust tree 
That once cast its white blossoms just over my way; 

I built castles of gold, with their glittering spires, 

On the moss-covered banks of life’s mystical stream, 
And my bark sailed far out o’er the waters so bright. 

To the land of sweet hope, in my fair childish dream. 

In my girlhood I sit on the old stone steps 

With my visions more real than childhood’s bright gleam, 
But the glamor and glow of morning’s first dawn 

Still are hovering in beauty o’er life’s silver stream. 

I weave meshes of gold in love’s gossamer web 

As I toy with the bubbles that arise to my view, 

As I glide o’er the mythical, mystical stream 

Into Cupid’s bright realms with their rose-tinted hue. 

I now sit, once again, on the old stone steps, 

For my journey’s been long and I droop on the way. 
And the glint and the gold of my maidenhood’s morn — 
They have long ago changed into twilight so grey, 

And the fondly loved locust has withered and died, 

And no snowy white petals from blossoms so sweet, 

Are now drifting adown like a shower of pearls, 

Till in fragrance they drop at my faltering feet. 

I am sitting to-day on the old stone steps, 

The old home is deserted and lonely and still, 

No sweet innocent voices of children at play, 

Break the gloom now so dismal and silent and chill; 

All the loved ones have passed o’er the old stone steps, 
O’er the steps that are moss-grown and greyish and cold, 
They have led the way upward o’er the stairway of gold, 
And have entered in safety the Good Shepherd’s fold. 

136 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS. 


OR, THE MEETING AT CLAYTON AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

(Founded on Facts.) 


CHAPTER I. 

THE MARRIAGE. 

u Oh, hard when love and duty clash!” 

The twilight shadows were deepening throughout 
the little village of Clayton. The evening sky was 
rosy with the last beams of the declining day, for 
already the great orb had disappeared behind the west- 
ern hills. The stars were coming out one by one in the 
blue vault above, and the silvery crescent of the new 
moon peeped through the boughs of a spreading oak on 
two lovers, who perhaps, charmed by the beauty of the 
evening, still lingered beside a rustic gate. 

May Vernon, with one hand thrown carelessly over 
the quaint carvings of the gate, the other clasped in the 
broad palm of Carl Marsden, lent a listening ear to the 
old, old story. 

“Ah! May, my beauty, if only I could prove to you 
how undying ismy affection,” he said as he bent low over 
the sweet face — “if only I could snatch that bright star 
from its home, and place it as a diadem on your brow, 
or, of yon silvery crescent make a fairy bark, and with 
you beside me, as my sceptered queen, sail on through 
life forever!” 


138 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“You forget, Carl, that the moon and stars are 
worlds, and between the two we might be crushed to 
atoms. But away with all this fine talk ; I am only plain 
little May Vernon, and care nothing for all this splendoi 
by which you would surround me. Only be true to me,” 
she softly whispered, “for oh, I am bartering mother, 
home and love all for you. Think too, what I am 
promising when I never deceived my mother in all my 
life; and oh, I grow so sad when I think of that excur- 
sion to E and of what her awakening will be when 

she realizes that I am gone forever from her sheltering 
care — from the parental roof. If only,” — and May hes- 
itated. 

“If only I were your mother’s choice,” he added. 
“You could not find voice to tell me that; but I am 
fully cognizant of the fact that she does not like 
me.” 

“You have guessed well. That is just what I hesi- 
tated in telling you, for I know everything would be so 
different if only you were her choice.” 

“Now don’t worry your head about that, my little 
sweetheart; when once we are married the time will 
soon come when your mother will welcome us home and 
give us the kiss of forgiveness.” 

“I hope so, but you don’t know my mother; she is 
very strong in her prejudices, and does not soon forgive a 
a wrong. This is why it almost breaks my heart to 
leave her, for already her cup has been filled to the brim 
with sorrow, and my going away may mean years of 
separation.” 

“Let us not brood over imaginary sorrow — time 
enough for that when it comes, so let us be happy while 
we may. Cheer up, and tell me that you will look at 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


139 


the new moon and dream of me. Let me see, — how do 
those lines run? Oh, yes; I remember: — 

“New moon, true moon, fair and free, 

Teil me to-night who my lover’s to be.” 

“Ah! it is looking at us through the leaves,” said 
May, “and woe be unto those w T ho do not see the new 
moon clear.” 

“Surely you are not growing superstitious, May?” 
and he laughed a little uneasily. 

“I do not know, but ever since this excursion to 

E has been planned, I have had gloomy forebodings. 

I have been taught to hate deceit, treachery, and every- 
thing akin to them; and to think we are planning to de- 
ceive my very best of friends seems more than I can 
bear. Perhaps by waiting we might gain her consent.” 

“But I cannot wait any longer; you have put me 
off from time to time, and I tell you, once for all, the 
decision must be made between your mother and me. 

If you refuse to wed me in E we part forever. Now, 

which shall it be?” 

“Oh, Carl, why make it so hard for me?” 

“Think it over, and make up your mind; we only 
have a few more days, I will see you again soon. Now, 
good-bye; I promised to see a friend to-night and I will 
be an hour late;” and he left a burning kiss on the rose- 
bud mouth. 

She w T atched his receding form and heard him whis- 
tling: 

“I love her, I always loved my Kate, 

I love her more than ever now, 

Since I kissed her at the gate.” 

May staid to hear no more, but ran lightly up the 


140 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


broad walk leading to the house, feeling assured that 
her lover’s thoughts were all of her. 

The morning of the excursion to E dawned 

bright and beautiful — a June morning full of gladness 
and song. The lovers had met in the meanwhile, May- 
had made her decision, and Carl had come off conqueror. 
With an aching heart May bade her mother adieu ; and 
as Mrs. Vernon clasped her darling girl to her heart, 
hoping for a safe and speedy return, little did she dream 
of the months of anguish that must go by ere she was 
again permitted to fold her beloved child to her bosom. 

With the return of the excursionists Mrs. Vernon 
watched for May’s coming, but, alas! she was doomed 
to disappointment, for instead there came only the 
mournful tidings of her daughter’s marriage to Carl 
Marsden. 

Oh! can death bring more sadness to a mother’s 
heart than a marriage? — and a marriage against her 
will, against the dictates of her better judgment? 
There are the long weary days of watching and waiting 
for the footstep that never comes, listening for the voice 
so loved, for the merry ripple of laughter that was as 
fresh and pure as an oui burst of melody from a bird in 
its first song. The voice is now for another, the smiles 
and kisses are for bearded lips, and day after day the 
patient mother must bear this pain tugging at her 
heartstrings and become resigned to a second place in 
her darling’s affections. 

May had a few thousand dollars in the bank, be- 
queathed her by an uncle. She came in possession of 
this soon after her marriage, and months of happiness 
glided by for her. Long, loving letters found their way 
to Mrs. Vernon, but she had never become sufficiently rec- 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


U1 


onciled to Carl Marsden to call them back home, which 
had she done, all the sorrow that followed might have 
been averted. Perhaps if parents were more forgiving 
in such cases, and young couples placed at once on the 
upward path, careers of usefulness might often result 
from the parental blessing, instead of failures that seem 
to follow their frowns. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE AWAKENING. 

May, so absorbed in her new-found happiness, 
thought of nothing but the present. So loyal was she 
to her hero, that, if after several months he was not as 
attentive towards her, nor as affectionate, as in the 
early days of their marriage, she made excuses for him. 
If he began to keep late hours, and came home with his 
face flushed, and his breath tainted with the odor 
which betrayed his familiarity with the wine-cup, 
the brave wife waited for his return, still pleading for 
his short-comings. Truly, though — 

“Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. 

’Tis woman’s whole existence.’’ 

Very happy had May been in her new home, and 
now her cup was overflowing. Over a year had gone by, 
and by her side was a beautiful babe she called “Cleave.” 
If only Carl would allow her to go home now, she felt 
that little Cleave would bridge the gulf that, had separ- 
ated them. If only she could lay him in her mother’s 
arms, she felt all would be right. But Carl had never 
forgiven Mrs. Vernon’s great dislike for himself, and 
would not be persuaded. 


142 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


But, alas! May’s sorrows came not singly. There 
came a time when the little home had to be given up, 
when they had to move into poorer quarters, when Carl 
was gone sometimes for days, leaving May and little 
Cleave all alone, when he would come home with an un- 
steady step, when the wolf seemed, indeed, prowling at 
the door, when rumors reached May of her husband’s 
devotion to another. 

Did she realize then that her idol had fallen? 
Still forgiving she would have taken him to her heart 
again, asking, — 

u Oh? what was love made for, if ’ tis not the same 
Through joy and through sorrow — through glory and 

shame?” 

But there dawned a day at last when she fully real- 
ized what this devotion to another meant. She sat, as 
of old, watching for his return, hoping, and trying to 
pray that she could win him back. She resolved at any 
rate, to try. At last, at last, she heard him coming ; she 
opened the door to greet him, as she was wont to do in 
brighter days. But he pushed her aside. 

“Oh! Carl, I am so glad you have come,’’ she ex- 
claimed, taking no notice of his rudeness. “We have 
been so lonely ; look at little Cleave, even he is glad. 
Won't you stay with us now? I fear our little boy will 
not even know his papa if you do not stay with us more 
than you have of late. You will remain with us to- 
night, won’t you?” 

“I have other engagements,’’ he answered gruffly. 

“But, Carl, for my sake, for your child's sake, be your 
old self again; and let us go back to the dear old happy 
days and start anew. Give up this worthless life you 
are living — a life that is degrading us all day by day. 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


148 


Think of your child, — of your wife — how she gave up 
all for you, and how r she would even now, forget her 
wrongs and take you to her heart again.” 

“Your wrongs, indeed! What do you mean, 
madam?” he brutishly asked. 

“Oh! Carl, I know how your name is coupled with 
that of another. I know all, and yet, I blush to mention 
it, for I have trusted you so fully.” 

“Who has dared to meddle with my affairs?” he 
asked. 

“No one but a friend who w T ould save you. Now, 
will you not come back to me, Carl? Remember I am 
your wife; will you not give up this unholy love?” and 
her voice was very pleading. 

“Unholy love?” he repeated, sneeringly, and an 
angry flush shot into either cheek. 

“Woman, you do not know what you say,” and he 
rudely pushed off the little hand that lay caressingly 
on his arm, and brought his own hands down heavily on 
her shoulders, while he looked her steadily in the eye 
and hissed through set teeth: “You do not know that 
yours is an unholy love, that you are but on a common 
level with the woman you talk about, and no more my 
wife than she. You do not know, that, in order to 
possess myself of your little fortune, I bribed an indi- 
vidual to put on clerical robes and pronounce us man 
and wife. Now, that your money is all gone, and the 
bloom and blush of your maidenhood departed, you 
cease to charm me. I have no further use for you. You 
are the dupe of an adventurer w T ho now seeks other 
fields to conquer.” 

“Oh! Carl,” and she fell on her knees, “I implore 
you to take back those cruel words, say that what you 


144 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


have told me is false, and I am your lawfully wedded 
wife.” 

“You are not my wife, and I will swear it,” he 
hissed in reply. “You and your child have no right to 
my name. You may go back now to the mother you so 
fondly love, and to Clayton, where your friends will no 
doubt give you a hearty welcome, especially when they 
know that you are not a wife. I go now from your 
presence forever,” and he strode out of the room, clos- 
ing the door on the grief-stricken woman. 

“Not a wife! God in heaven, have mercy,” pleaded 
May, sinking lower on the floor and burying her face 
in her hands. “Not a wife, and little Cleave no right 
to a father’s name !” she moaned in her anguish. Where 
could she go? What could she do? Even the very 
walls seemed to echo, “You are not a wife.” All night 
she kept a lonely vigil, sometimes pacing the floor, and 
again, crouching in the shadows, as if to hide her shame. 

The fire burned low on the hearth, and ghastly 
pictures flitted over the grim walls. Slowly the gray 
morning began to dawn over the great city, and found 
in the humble apartment of the Marsden’s only a sad 
woman, hugging to her bosom a tiny snow drop, and 
moaning as she swayed to and fro: “Not a wife, little 
Cleave, no name.” 

All alone in the great city, with scarcely a crust of 
bread, and this great sorrow gnawing at her heart. 

Ere a week had gone by the news of May’s deser- 
tion had reached the gossip lovers of Clayton, but none 
had the courage to break the news to Mrs. Vernon. 

A commercial traveler, an old time friend, had met 
Carl Marsden on a south-bound train and Marsden had 
related to him the whole story in a cool, reckless manner. 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


145 


“It was all I could do to keep my pistol from his 
head,” said the salesman, in relating the incident to a 
merchant in Clayton. “To think that poor little woman 
is now left alone in the city, worse,, far worse than a 
deserted wife, with no shelter, perhaps, for her defense- 
less head.” 

“Yes,” answered the merchant, “but it ought to 
be a lesson to girls, not to trust every fellow that has a 
handsome face.” 

“Forewarned is forearmed,” so May’s former asso- 
ciates were prepared for her. coming. “She need not 
think she will get back into our circle,” said one. 

“I for one will give her the cold shoulder,” said 
another. 

“I shall not countenance her,” chimed in a third. 

“Just as I expected,” said several. 

“I blame her mother,” said others, “she ought to 
have had her under better control,” — and so the gossip 
continued. 

Who but a mother will follow us through glory and 
shame, who but a mother will listen to all our griev- 
ances, and kiss away our tears? Who but a mother is 
ever ready to overlook our faults, and take us to her 
heart again? 

So May resolved to go back to home and mother. 
In a few days she had disposed of her few articles of 
furniture, paid her rent and had enough left to purchase 
a ticket to P , a station eight miles from Clayton. 

It was growing late in the afternoon of a December 
day when May, with little Cleave in her arms, alighted 
from the train. She started at once on her weary jour- 
ney, for the clouds looked bleak, and already the winds 
sighed mournfully through the forest. Eight miles to 


146 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Clayton; how could she ever walk that far? Drawing 
her shawl closer she dragged herself wearily along. 
She had not eaten, nor scarcely slept since the time of 
her desertion, and faint and weak she pressed on toward 
mother and home. But a kind old farmer came along 
and offered her a seat in his wagon. Five miles were 
passed over, and his road then ran in a different direc- 
tion, Three miles farther and night was almost upon 
her. 

On and on she went, resting here and there, until 
the lights of her home village gleamed in the distance. 
How her head ached and how heavy little Cleave was 
growing! Would she ever reach there! 

****** 

Mrs. Vernon safc by the fireside thinking of May. 
So many months had gone by since any tidings had 
come from the absent one. Would she ever sit by her 
side as in olden time? 

There is a faint rap at the door. Who can it be at 
this hour? Mrs. Vernon goes to the door and turns the 
lock. Slowly the door swings back on its hinges. The 
light in the grate flashes up for a moment and reveals 
May, with little Cleave clasped in her arms, lying 
across the threshold. 


CHAPTER III. 

HOME AND MOTHER. 

The sun, like a great ball of fire, swung lower and 
lower, shedding his last beams on the straggling little 
village of Clayton. On the outskirts of this village 
stood a rude, low-roofed building whose windows were 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


147 


now burnished like shining gold. The last rays of the 
dying day lent this charm to the dreary place, and the 
golden glory seemed to linger caressingly, as it fell on 
the face of a wan, pale woman, who sat by the window 
gazing abstractedly into the dim distance ; and across 
the brow of a fair-faced child sleeping in a cradle by her 
side. The woman’s face, on which traces of beauty were 
once visible, but now so full of sadness, sank lower until 
it rested on her hand, and in bitterness she whispered : 

“Betrayed! betrayed by the man I loved! O! God, 
why didst thou not take us unto thyself ; but no, no, — oh, 
why do I ask when I am not worthy to enter thy sacred 
precincts? I am an outcast on earth, and an alien from 
thee, — a mother and not a wife. My honor, my good 
name, all gone, and not even the inheritance of a father’s 
name for my little Cleave. My life is indeed dark and 
dreary for one so young. Only eighteen summers have 
left their traces on my brow, and all is darkness, mid- 
night blackness to me. Not the faintest ray of happi- 
ness lights my thorny path. If I only had the Chris- 
tian’s hope, but alas! even that is denied me, and, 
branded like the woman with the scarlet letter, I must 
bear my desertion, my sin, and my shame, in silence and 
alone. Not one to look in compassion on me, save my 
widowed mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. 
That I, her youngest, her pride, should have fallen so 
low! Great heavens, that I, who once held my place in 
the best circles of society, should have become so de- 
graded ! And Cleave, little Cleave, X have brought this 
woe upon you, too. But, oh! I did it innocently, I 
thought 1 was his wife.” And, sinking on the floor be- 
side the sleeping babe she buried her face, while moans 
of anguish swayed her slender form. 


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“Come, my child, you must not give up to your 
grief this way,” said an elderly lady who came to her 
side and laid her hand tenderly on the bowed head. 
“Can you not look to Jesus and cast your cares on Him,” 
she continued, “He bids us come and says He will in no 
wise cast us out. Live for your boy’s sake and rear him 
up for God.” 

“Don’t, don’t, mother, it hurts me so to know that 
I have brought all this on his little innocent head, and 
on you whose cup was already filled with anguish and 
tears. I cannot look to heaven for relief, I am not even 
worthy of that,” and lower she sank on the floor while 
her mother knelt by the cradle and took May’s slight 
form in her arms. It was a picture that angels might 
have wept over, — sorrow, old age, womanhood, and 
childhood, sat hand in hand in the glittering twilight; 
while the uncertain fire-light brightened up the room 
and then left it in shadows. 

With May’s coming came reverses to Mrs. Vernon, 
and she was forced to give up the home bound by so 
many sacred ties and rent a dreary old house in the 
suburbs of Clayton. Mrs. Vernon’s life had been darkly 
clouded. Husband and son slept in untimely graves, 
but, left with a family of small children, she had trusted 
in Him who has said He wfill not forget the widow and 
the orphan ; and she had seen her children grow up hon- 
orable and prosperous. May, the youngest and only 
girl at home, was just ripening into womanhood and 
beauty when Carl Marsden came — a dashing young man, 
and a stranger, whom Mrs. Vernon disliked from the 
first. But May’s beautiful face had won him, and his 
gay, reckless manner had for her a peculiar charm. So 
May plighted her troth, hoping to gain her mother’s 


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149 


consent ; but from time to time she was forced to post- 
pone their marriage, until Carl would be put off no 
longer, as the reader already knows, so the excursion to 

E resulted not only in the consummation of their 

plans, but in blighting her life, also. O! how T much 
pain would be spared the erring if only the world would 
believe them less vile than they are represented ; but, 
indeed, there are those -who would rather believe all the 
evil of a person and none of the good, and it seems that 
the greater portion of Clayton was all this class. 

Time wore on drearily to the deserted woman. 
Cursed by a brother, who had become hard-hearted and 
cruel, scorned by a sister she had fondly loved, sneered 
at by those who had been her associates, it is no wonder 
that she prayed for death as a release for herself and 
her child; but death does not come when we most want 
it, and, though life may become a burden, still it must 
be borne. 

So May Vernon hopelessly and aimlessly took up 
the broken threads of her existence, and among her few 
friends and advisers sought a livelihood. Little Cleave 
grew brighter and more beautiful each day, and Mrs. 
Vernon’s heart went out in fondest devotion to the little 
outcast. He was now almost a year old and seemed the 
only ray of sunshine in the gloomy old house. But there 
came a day when disease preyed upon the fragile form, 
and anxiously the two watched by the bedside of their 
darling. Their watching was all in vain, and sadly the 
physician shook his head w’hen May begged for hope. 
Paler and thinner grew little Cleave, and ere long death’s 
icy fetters w T ere laid upon him, and with a sad, sweet 
smile on those who had loved him so much he closed his 
eyes on all things earthly, and his sweet spirit w T ent to 


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that Father who has said “Suffer little children to come 
unto me.” Sadly they followed him to his last resting 
place. As May gazed on the little bud so rudely broken, 
she felt what she was losing, and she sank by the lifeless 
form while the agonizing cry. “O, Cleave! Cleave! how 
can I give you up? How can I go to the old home without 
you;” broke on the stillness of the autumn evening. 
But hearts may break and still beat on, so May’s heart 
so crushed and sad was now broken and bleeding and she 
felt that with Cleave’s dying died out all the light of her 
life. Long dreary days went by with a mother’s longing 
for the merry prattle and voice of a loved one that was 
forever stilled, until the days had grown into weeks 
since little Cleave had left them. 

“The heart — which may be broken: happy they 
Thrice fortunate! who, of that fragile mould, 

The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the first fall: they can ne’er behold 
The long year linked with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne, and never told; 

While life’s strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

ADVISED. 

About this time came Brother Holton, pastor of the 
Clayton Baptist Church, to hold a series of meetings. 
Broken in spirit, humiliated to the last degree, and grop- 
ing in darkness, May could but list to that small voice 
that said “Come unto me.” Seeking that panacea for 
all ills, accompanied by her mother, she ventured one 
night to church. Many months had gone by since she 
had entered the house of God, and since she had met the 


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151 


friends of other days. A smile of scorn went round 
when the black robed figures entered, but the sad, hope- 
less expression that sat on the face of the younger 
awakened an interest in the heart of Brother Holton. 
The meeting continued, and sinners were fleeing to the 
“Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world.” 
Brother Holton heard May’s history, sought her out and 
entreated her to seek religion. Sadly she shook her 
head, and tears coursed their w T ay down her cheeks. 

“I know not the way,” she answered, “I am grop- 
ing in darkness. Pray for me, but do not ask me to the 
altar of prayer.” 

Mrs. Houston, a very zealous member, admonished 
her to become a Christian. 

“Pray for me ; I want the prajers of all Christians, 
but I cannot go to the anxious seat,” was ever her 
answer. 

Mrs. Danton, May’s former teacher, sat near her 
one night during the meeting, when more than ever 
Brother Holton’s w r ords struck home to every heart. 
Sinners were calling for mercy, and Christians were at 
work in the good cause. Yet some who were suppress- 
ing the voice of conscience, sat back, cold and immov- 
acle. After earnest pleadings the pastor said to the con- 
gregation : 

“If you have a friend here who is out of the ark of 
safety, go to that friend and give him your hand, and 
show by that act that you are interested in the salvation 
of his soul.” 

How Mrs. Danton longed to go to May, but she did 
not, and the opportunity passed. 

Poor May, being the only one in the house who had 
not received this kindly attention, sat friendless and 
alone. 


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“Sad, indeed, is the fate of that one,” said the pas- 
tor, “who has no friend with whom to journey to the 
Better Land; no friend on earth and none in eternity. 
What a future looms up before such a person! Oh! if 
there were ever a time when Christians should send 
up earnest petitions .to the Great White Throne, it is 
now.” Like one condemned to die sat May, and after 
services were over, Mrs. Danton, with a ti enabling voice, 
thus addressed her : 

“May, I am your friend, and am interested in you; 
I want you to become a Christian. Will you not prom- 
ise me that you will seek religion?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” she faintly whispered. 

“And will you not promise me that you will go to 
the altar of prayer when the invitation is extended to- 
morrow night?” urged Mrs. Danton. 

“Yes, ma’am,” she answered, without hesitation. 

“That is a good girl, May; remember you have 
one friend who is praying for you, and don’t forget your 
promise,” said Mrs. Danton as she turned to go. 

On the day following, Mrs. Danton sent for May. 
She came bearing that same weary, hopeless expression 
on her countenance. It was the first time she had en- 
tered the house of Mrs. Danton since the happy old days 
when a light-hearted, innocent girl she came with her 
school-mates and mingled her beautiful voice with theirs 
in song. Old memories were awakened in the heart of 
each. But Mrs. Danton forced back her tears and 
warmly greeted her old pupil. 

“May, I have sent for you,” she began, “to talk 
with you on the subject of religion. What a great com- 
fort it would be to you in this hour of trial. There is 
nothing that will bring such sweet peace to your heart 


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153 


as this. Our dear Savior was himself a man of sorrow 
and acquainted with grief; and he has said ‘Come unto 
me and I will give you rest.’ O, May, do you not feel 
that the invitation is to you? Are you not heavy-laden 
and do you not feel that rest? Listen further, he says, 
‘Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am 
meek and lowly in heart ; and ye shall find rest unto 
your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is 
light.’ O, how can you resist his gentle pleadings, 
when you so much need his love. Only trust him ; ac- 
cept his promises, and in his arms he will take and 
shield you, then let the world treat you as it may, you 
can close your eyes upon it all, knowing that he is your 
friend always; for he has said, ‘I will never leave thee 
nor forsake thee.’ ” 

“Indeed I am heavy-laden,” sobbed May, “and oh, 
how I long for that rest and peace of which you speak, 
but I am too unworthy; my sister whom I have always 
loved and still love, though she will not speak to me 
now, says that my doom is sealed, there is no religion 
for such as I.” 

“If your sister believes that,” replied Mrs. Dan ton, 
“she misunderstands the Scriptures. Do not let that 
trouble you ; for surely the promises are all on your side. 
The Savior died to save such as you. Have you never 
read of how he saved the thief on the cross, and of how 
Paul said that he had saved him who was the chief of 
sinners, and of the poor unfortunate woman to whom he 
said, ‘Go and sin no more?’ ‘Though your sins be as 
scarlet, I will make them white as wool,” says Holy 
Writ. The blood of Christ cleanseth from sin ; and you 
have only to believe this, and that he will save you — 
trust him fully, nothing doubting and you will realize 


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sweet peace, ‘such peace as the world giveth not!’ I be- 
lieve the Lord will bless you if you only seek him aright 
— something tells me that ere this meeting winds to a 
close you will be purified and ready to meet little Cleave 
on the Beautiful Shore.” 

“What a weight you have lifted from my over-bur- 
dened heart, for I am now convinced that there is mercy 
even for such as I, and I am determined to seek until I 
obtain pardon. I shall not forget your interest for me 
and to-night will fulfil the promise I have made you,” 
said May as she arose to go. 


CHAPTER Y. 

BLESSED. 

May Vernon did as she had promised. That night 
when the invitation was extended, she was the first of the 
many that flocked to the altar of prayer. Casting her- 
self on her knees she poured out her soul in earnest sup- 
plication to God for mercy. Deep feeling pervaded the 
entire assembly. It was a scene that must have enlisted 
the sympathy of angels. The Christians were deeply 
moved and actively engaged in instructing their various 
friends. But one who had hitherto been a zealous 
worker among the penitents sat stern and immovable. 
It was none other than May’s august sister, Mrs. Wal- 
don. In the pew behind her sat Mrs. Danton. With a 
heart full of sadness she leaned over and softly whis- 
pered, “Mrs. Waldon, will you not go to May and speak 
one little word? It would be a sweet comfort to her in 
this hour of grief, and perhaps God would bless it to the 
saving of her soul. Only this evening she told me how 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


155 


much she loved you and how she longed to again hear 
your voice. Now will you not go?” 

“I can’t do that; I never expect to speak to her 
while I live. And as to her saying she loves me, don’t 
you believe it; she doesn’t mean a word of it,” came the 
answer as icily as if it had been blown from the Arctic 
regions. 

Mrs. Danton drew away, feeling as if an arrow had 
pierced her heart. What could she do? Not only did 
May need the prayers of Christians but also of that sis- 
ter, who, only a few days since, had sent glad shouts to 
heaven over the conversion of some friend, but now re- 
fused to assist in rescuing that perishing one bound by 
the nearest ties of relationship. 

May continued to seek with all the powers of her 
nature, but not until the following evening, after she had 
reached her home — that home which had become to her 
almost a tomb, so rank had the weeds and thistles grown 
up around it — did the blessing come. But it did come 
and the burden of sorrow was lifted, the old home be- 
came a paradise, and May was a child of God. When 
Mrs. Danton met her at church that night, how the face 
that had been so full of tears was transformed. A glad 
light shone in her eyes as she embraced Mrs. Danton and 
whispered, “I love you so much, I love every one else too.” 

“I am so thankful,” said Mrs. Danton. “I knew 
all would be right, if only you gave your heart into the 
sacred keeping of our dear Saviour. Your first duty, 
now, is to join the church and be baptized; for you 
should endeavor to walk ‘in all the commands and ordi- 
nances of the Lord blameless.’ ” 

“I am going to join the church,” she answered, 
“but I want to wait for Laura.” 


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The meeting continued to grow in interest. The 
day following May’s profession was an experience 
meeting. Many of the brethren and some of the sisters 
told what great things God had done for them ; and as 
their minds were carried back to the time when they 
first passed from darkness to light, they were made 
happy in remembrance of the occasion. The spirit of 
God was poured out among his people. Those who had 
been at enmity shook hands in token of forgiveness. 
Mrs. Houston v as called on to pray. Without hesita- 
tion she knelt, surrounded by Christians and sinners, 
and with earnestness and pathos made intercession for 
all. When the amen was pronounced audible sobs were 
heard throughout the church, and it seemed that every 
heart was melted to tears. Mrs. Danton, thinking that 
this was the auspicious time, with a voice full of emo- 
tion, again addressed May’s sister: 

“Will you not speak to May now?” she pleaded. 

“No, I won’t,” came the decisive answer. 

“How can you act so?” asked Mrs. Danton. “You 
are surely not more just than the God you worship ; and 
he has forgiven her.” 

“But we don’t know that he has,” was the curt re- 

ply. 

“Judge not, that ye be not judged, and remember 
that with what measure you mete it shall be measured 
to you again,” said Mrs. Danton as she turned away 
with an aching heart. Perplexed and grieved, she 
asked herself, “What more can I do?” As if in answer 
to her query the choir sang out, 

“Take everything to God in prayer.” 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


157 


CHAPTER VI. 

PERSECUTED. 

Several were awaiting the ordinance of baptism, 
and it was whispered around that May Vernon, not hav- 
ing had an opportunity of joining the church, would 
present herself at the water as a candidate for immer- 
sion; and that Mrs. Danton was urging her up to it. 
Clayton, like all villages, was addicted to gossip, and 
with this the ball started; round and round it went, 
growing larger at each revolution. 

“I will leave the church at once if they take her 
in,” said Mrs. Benton, treasurer of the Sunday-school. 

“I’ll never fellowship withMay Vernon on earth,” 
said pious Mrs. Morton. “I reckon she’ll want to visit 
our houses next; they say she’s already been to Mrs. 
Danton’s and had her arms around her.” 

“Well, I’ll take my letter from the church and 
never enter this house again if she's received,” said Mrs. 
Walton. 

Others said nothing, but stood aloof from Mrs. Dan- 
ton, and treated her as coldly as they did May. Yet 
every day and night the choir sang with energy and 
spirit, 

“Rescue the perishing. 

Care for the dying, 

Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave ; 

Weep o’er the erring ones, 

Lift up the fallen, 

Tell them of Jesus the mighty to save.” 

Was it a crime for Mrs. Danton to advise May to 
follow God’s command and join the church? If it was 


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so considered by the members of the Clayton church, 
little did Mrs. Danton care. It was her Master’s cause 
in which she was engaged, and her conscience approved 
what her Bible told her was right. 

The baptizing came off, but May Vernon was not 
one of the number. Vague rumors had reached her ears. 
No opportunity had been given for her reception at the 
water, and it was now clear to her that it was not the in- 
tention that she should become a member of the Clayton 
church. While she stood watching the administration 
of the ordinance her mind ran back to the baptism of the 
dear Saviour, and she longed to follow in his footsteps. 
She believed, and here was water, and yet she was hin- 
dered from being baptized; but she felt that she would 
not be held responsible for this omission of duty, and 
that though earthly friends had forsaken her, there was 
one whose promises are everlasting — the one on whose 
strong arm she was now leaning. 

The baptizing over, all repaired to the church. where 
services were opened by singing : 

“I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, 

The far away home of the soul 

Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand, 
While the years of eternity roll.” 

****** 

u Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land, 

So free from all sorrow and pain; 

With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands, 

To meet one another again.” 

Mrs. Danton sat bathed in tears during the singing 
of this song, for she felt that these Clayton Christians 
had decided that May Vernon should have no part with 
them in that “home of the soul,” and that they would 
have her voice, which once led in the choir, but was now 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


159 


hushed in sadness, — that they would have that voice 
stilled in that beautiful land, with no song on her lips 
and no harp in her hand. A still, small voice seemed 
to whisper, “They are keeping my child away,” and 
she wondered if Jesus was not weeping over the lamb he 
had chosen, but who had not been permitted to enter 
His fold. “God in Heaven, forgive,” she prayed, 
“they know not what they do.” 

How Brother Holton, Mr. and Mrs. Houston fought 
for May Vernon! How grand and noble appeared 
Brother Holton, after Mrs. Vernon had told the church 
of the many trials through which she had passed, and 
of her perfect faith in God through all her sorrows, when 
he sprang up, extended her his hand and said, “God 
bless you, sister Vernon.” How the members followed 
his example! How they gathered around Mrs. Vernon, 
as if eager to show their appreciation of that Christian 
spirit which had enabled her through all her trials to 
say, “Not my will but thine be done.” 

Still May was left out and the gossip continued. 

Brother Holton lectured his charge every day on 
the duty of Christians ; warned them against the too 
liberal use of that unruly member, the tongue; told 
them of the evils of “they say,” etc. He urged them 
to make their lives consistent with their profession, 
saying, “You sing, ‘Lift up the fallen go and do it.” 
And yet no change came ; sinners were still pleading for 
mercy, but it seemed that God, in sorrow and anger, 
withheld the blessing. Christians grew colder, and a 
dark cloud hovered over the meeting. For days no con- 
version crowned the labors of God’s people though 
there were scores of anxious seekers. It was under these 
circumstances that Brother Holton arose and said that 


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he had a proposition for those who had the moral cour- 
age and candor, and the salvation of sinners at heart 
sufficiently to enter into it. It was that every one, who 
was willing earnestly to pray God to remove the cause 
that hindered the conversion of those anxious souls, 
would come into the altar at prayer and extend him 
their hand in token of such a resolution. “And remem- 
ber,” said he, “that you are to pray for the removal of 
the hindering cause — whatever that may be, even if it 
requires the sacrifice of my life, or your life; for what 
is the life of a man in comparison with the salvation of 
these sinners. Think before you act, and if you can’t 
enter into it in deep earnestness, don’t come; for I be- 
lieve that were a man to trifle in such a matter as this, 
God would strike him dead.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

BAPTIZED. 

It was a serious time. Silence pervaded the assem- 
bly, and with faces pale as death but with steps firm 
and decided, the Christians thronged the altar to enter 
into this covenant, and Mrs. Waldon was one of the 
number. But the hindering cause was not removed and 
in grief Brother Holton closed the meeting the following- 
night. 

Another came, however, a stranger, and took up 
the broken fragments of the meeting. After a while God 
in pity sent his messenger and many hearts were made 
to rejoice. May’s brother and his wife Laura, the Laura 
whom she was waiting for, and the brother for whom 
she had prayed so earnestly, were made happy by the 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


161 


atoning blood of Jesus Christ. Soon after, these three 
and many others joined the church. When May presen- 
ted herself, her sister, unforgiving still, walked down 
the long aisle and passed out of the church, determined 
never on earth to recognize her as a Christian; and some 
sympathizing friends whispered: 

“Farewell, sister Waldon; she is done with this 
church forever.” How angels must have wept over the 
scene ! 

Again Clayton was in confusion. Some who had 
joined with May refused to be baptized with her ; and 
her brother advised her to wait until Brother Holton’s 
return, saying, good humoredly, “Don’t think, sister, 
that I am ashamed to be baptized with you ; but so much 
trouble has arisen I think it best that you should wait.” 

She willingly consented; never through any of her 
trials becoming offended with any one, but protesting 
all the while that she loved everybody, and could for- 
give them all their unkindness, as she knew God had 
forgiven her. 

Brother Overton, the strange preacher, had heard 
her history, and her fair sweet face, so full of sadness 
had for him a peculiar fascination. 

The last night of his stay an elderly gentleman, who 
was visiting Clayton, came forward to unite himself 
with the church. He was to be immersed at sunrise the 
next morning as Brother Overton was going to leave. 
May knew that Mr. Stanton w r ould not object to her 
being baptized with him, and by Brother Overton’s ad- 
vice she promised to meet him at the water. The morn- 
ing dawned bright and beautiful and the little crowd 
gathered on the banks of Carson creek. Mr. Stanton 
came first, then Mr. Weston, wife and brother, those 


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who had refused to be present on the former occasion, 
thinking that May would be there. The ordinance was 
administered and all were about ready to leave when 
May arrived. She was warmly greeted by Brother Ov- 
erton, and supported only by him, was soon entering the 
placid stream. 

Was it the hand of providence that made May Ver- 
non’s baptism so pure that none of the Clayton Christ- 
ians, with feelings of bitterness rankling in their hearts, 
was permitted to enter the water with her? We know 
not; but as they stood in the midst of the stream — the 
administrator and the subject — an imaginative mind 
might have reverted to the time when Jesus, in Jordan, 
was baptized of John. And though no heavens opened, 
on this occasion, May Vernon was fulfilling all righteous- 
ness, and she felt in her heart that her Father was well 
pleased. 

Brother Overton bade adieu to his new-found friends 
little dreaming when and where would be his next meet- 
ing with May Vernon. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

TRIUMPHANT. 

Years have come and gone. May Vernon’s life has 
been a beautiful story of self-sacrifice. She has been an 
ornament to the church, and has endeared herself to 
many a heart in Clayton. Employment having been 
given her she has been enabled to purchase a little home 
for herself and mother, which, in the unselfishness of 
her nature, she has deeded to Mrs. Vernon. What bright 
hopes they were building for a long life of happiness. 


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163 


But, alas! again a dark shadow falls across May’s heart 
and home. Mrs. Vernon has become a victim to that 
dread disease, consumption. Oh, how May’s whole life 
goes out to God in prayer, that he will let this cup pass ; 
that he will spare her last, best, and only friend! How 
she tries to say, “Not my will, but thine be done,” and 
how she administers to the wants of her darling mother ! 
Night and day as if superhuman strength were given 
her, she watches by the bedside of the sufferer ; and she 
is repaid by the caresses of the thin hands that stroke 
her hair, and the weak voice that says : “God will bless 
you, my May, for your devotion to your mother. You 
have done all on earth a child could do for a mother, and 
I love you, my precious child, I love you.” 

But Mrs. Waldon, May’s unforgiving sister, came 
not near the dying mother ; and Mrs. Waldon was one of 
the most devout Christians that claimed membership in 
the Clayton church. But her mother had not closed the 
doors on May ; instead had allowed her to return home 
and bring disgrace on the family, and this the proud 
Mrs. Waldon could never forgive. For this she broke 
off all connections with her mother and never looked on 
her face again. 

So it was May, broken-hearted little May, who stood 
alone, with only a bother, by the side of the dying 
mother. It was only May who clasped the icy hands, 
and kissed the pallid lips. And only May who followed 
the darling mother to her last resting place. 

But it was not May who, a few weeks afterward, 
employed a lawyer to investigate the business affairs. 
No; it was none other than the pious Mrs. Waldon, who 
now, for the sake of a few paltry dollars, was not too 
proud to claim heirship to the property of Mrs. Vernon; 


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and, though she knew it was justly May’s, availed her- 
self of a technicality of the law to possess herself of that 
which May’s own money had purchased. 

But May leaves everything; for home is home to 
her no longer. She goes south with a lady friend, and 
has no sooner arrived at Mobile than that direful disease, 
yellow fever, breaks out. Like a sister of charity 
girded with the Christian’s hope, she goes out to nurse 
the sick and the dying. In a hospital where she has 
lingered night and day, a face and form strangely fa- 
miliar are by her side. It is the minister, Brother Ov- 
erton, and he recognizes in the sweet sister of charity 
the saddened girl whom he baptized in Carson creek 
years ago. Accounts of her pure life of self sacrifice 
have reached him many a time, and as he gazes on this 
woman, so gentle, so beautiful, with the imprint of a 
Christian stamped on every lineament, he is proud to 
know that it is May Vernon, and that her image has 
never left his heart. She knows now that he has loved her 
all these years, and a band of gold gleams on her first 
finger. She has promised to wed a minister, and that 
minister Brother Overton. They are standing by the 
bedside of one who in wild delirium is begging for May. 
He says : “How cruelly I have wronged her! O, that 
she were here to forgive me, for how can I die with this 
great sin darkening my soul?” 

Bending closer May scans his features. In the wild 
blood-shot eyes and emaciated form she recognizes her 
seducer, Carl Marsden. The light of reason dawns once 
more upon him, and he knows that his nur?e is May 
Vernon. 

“Oh! May, can you forgive me?” he asks. 

“I have forgiven you long ago, Carl Marsden,” she 


MAY VERNON S TRIALS 


165 


answers; “but no one can help you but Jesus. Goto 
him, and plead for pardon. Your crimes are great but 
he can remove them all. Make your peace with God 
for your time on earth is brief.” 

“Do you hate me?” he asks. 

“I once did; but God has taken all that away, and 
I pity you now,” she answers. 

“Will you tell me of our boy?” 

“Little Cleave is in heaven.” 

“It is better so,” he answers sadly; “would that I 
were prepared to meet him. Oh, May, I have cruelly 
wronged you. I think I must have been mad in those 
days, but I was under the baleful influence of that wom- 
an who blighted our lives. I wanted to get you out of 
my way, and cared not how. I knew you were so trust- 
ing, so innocent, that you would believe anything I told 
you, and would never investigate further. 

“After I was freed from the hateful fetters that 
held me, as if in the bonds of Satan, I intended to come 
back, and on bended knee implore your pardon, and 
prove to the world you were my wife; for you are indeed, 
my lawful wedded wife, and you will find the records 
in the clerk’s office in the city of E — ” 

“Thank God,” said May, “my innocence can at last 
be proved. But your great wrong did its work, Carl 
Marsden, and God will hold you responsible for the life 
you have almost ruined.” 

“But you will forgive me, May? Now won’t you 
kiss me once, — only once before I die, for the sake of 
our boy; for the sake of the love you once bore me?” 

“Do not ask me,” she answered, as she shudderingly 
drew away. “I forgive you all; but my lips shall forever 
be pure for one, and that one is the man I am soon to 
marry.” 


166 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Reaching out hisliand as if he understood, he placed 
her hand in that of Brother Overton, and his lips moved 
as if in prayer. They stood by him for a long while. 
A change came over his pallid features and his hand 
dropped to his side. He whispered, “I am going to 
little Cleave,” and Carl Marsden was no more. 

The yellow fever has subsided, and May and her 
friends have traveled all over the South. But now they 
are homeward bound and May is happy, for she will 
soon be with her brother and Laura. 

Clayton is once more thrown into a state of excite- 
ment, and the gossipers are traveling at a lively rate. 

“They say — May Vernon is actually going to 
marry.” 

“And to the preacher that baptized her.” 

“And that she really was married to Carl Marsden. 
And that he is dead.” 

“And that Carl told her where to find the proof of 
their marriage, and that she has a certified copy of the 
records,” etc., etc. 

Already the marriage bells are ringing in the old 
Clayton church where our heroine has been despised and 
rejected. Brother Holton is waiting. Mr. and Mrs.. 
Houston, Mr. and Mrs. Danton enter first. May says 
she wants her best-loved friends near. Then comes the 
bride, radiantly beautiful, on the arm of Brother Over- 
ton. A large crowd has assembled. Brother Holton in 
his most impressive manner performs the ceremony. 
“Whom God hath joined together let no man put asun- 
der.” 

What means this great commotion? Some one 
pressing through the dense crowd has clasped May in 
a warm embrace, and through her tears is saying: 


MAY VERNON’S TRIALS 


167 


“Darling sister, can you forgive the wrongs I have 
inflicted upon you?” 

May kisses' her as she says : “Long ago, sweet sister, 
in this very church, when God first touched my heart, I 
forgave you.” 

But other friends are crowding up with congratula- 
tions, and Brother Holton, as he grasps the hands of the 
bride and groom, says: “God be praised.” 

And Brother Houston says, “Amen.” 


WEARY. 


Weary, oh, so weary, 

And the years they seem so long, 

Since you held me close, dear mother, 
And I heard your low, sweet song. 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

And the way is dark ; — no light 

’Lumes the pathway of your offspring ; 
Lone she walks in silent night. 

Weary, oh, so weary 
Of the cold, the false, the untrue, 

How my heart is yearning, yearning, 
Yearning, mother, dear, for you. 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

Months have ripened into years 
Since I on your lap in childhood, 

Felt you kiss away my tears. 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

In those arms to rest once more, 

There to weep out all my sorrow, 

On your bosom as of yore. 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

Even Heaven’s far away, — 

For your child now walks in darkness, 
Heeding not the light of day. 

168 


WEARY 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

Yet the promise, — oh how blest, — 

I will claim, for Jesus promised, — 
Come and “I will give thee rest.” 

Weary, oh, so weary, 

Longing just to touch the Hand 
That will lead me thro’ the valley 
To the blissful summer land. 

[ADDED BY E. Jj. s,] 

Weary then no longer, 

In that Heavenly land I’ll dwell 
Ever singing with the angels, 
Halleluiah : all is w T ell ! 


169 


LITTLE NINA. 


“A letter from Aunt Ruth, girls,” said my mother 
one bright day in Spring when the air was rich with 
perfume and the birds wild with delight. “A letter 
from Aunt Ruth,” she said, and crossing the room, 
handed it to me. 

“Oh! it is the same old story,” said my elder sister 
in injured tones, “she never cares to extend her invita- 
tion to any one but Nina, and we don’t care to hear 
from her, for she is as gloomy as midnight at any rate.” 

“For sham'e, girls,” said my mother, “if you knew 
Aunt Ruth’s story you would not speak thus. But this 
time she has invited all three of you to spend the sum- 
mer with her.” 

“We would rather go to some watering place than to 
her old country home,” said my sister, “and so we will 
not accept our old Auntie’s invitation ; Nina, I presume, 
would enjoy it, and Mama, dear, she can take our 
places.” 

I was only too glad to hear my mother say: “Well, 
Nina can go this time, for Aunt Ruth has sent an invi- 
tation every summer for three years, and we have never 
gratified this whim of hers; and then she never has seen 
Nina and she named her too,” 

I was the youngest of three daughters and the 
coming winter was to witness my debut into society. 

170 


LITTLE NINA 


171 


Our home was in the city and oh ! how often I had 
longed for the green fields, the blooming orchards and 
the budding trees I remembered seeing when a child at 
my Grandpa’s. 

It was a lovely morning in June, and the long 
blades of grass were dripping with dew, when the lum- 
bering train deposited me with mp baggage at the de- 
pot in the little old-fashioned town of Milford. A car- 
riage was in waiting and a pleasant-faced individual 
with the air of a countryman doffed his hat to me and 
asked if I was the lady Mrs. Ruth Grey expected. I 
told him I was, and soon I was in the carriage and 
whirling toward my unknown aunt’s. I shall never for- 
get the picture that dawned on my enraptured vision as 
the carriage rolled up the broad drive. Beauty and 
richness shone in everything. I was met at the entrance 
by a lady prematurely old. Her silvery hair sat on her 
head like a crown of glory, while in her face were traces 
of sadness that had grown beautiful through the peace 
that dwelt in her heart. I gazed on her in wrapt ad- 
miration and thought of Swedenborg’s angels that are 
often with us, but not of us. 

She gave me one look and a deathly pallor over- 
spread her face : 

“You are — ” 

“Nina,” I answered. 

She caught me in her arms and said: “My little 
Nina has indeed come back to me.” 

I was ushered into a handsomely furnished apart- 
ment, and nothing but days of happiness followed. 
How my sisters would have envied me if they had only 
known what it was to be at Aunt Ruth’s home. I only 
regretted that all my summers had not been spent with 


172 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


her, for she said I brought sunshine to her heart and 
home. She fancied there was a striking resemblance in 
my face to one she had loved and lost; the one whose 
name I bore. In her room hung the picture of her little 
Nina, and she had promised to tell me her story. So 
one lovely afternoon we drove to the cemetery and en- 
tered the silent city of the dead. Toward an enclosure, 
where gleamed a lofty monument with a sculptured an- 
gel poising on its summit, we directed our steps. Open- 
ing the iron gate we passed through and I stood by the 
grave of Aunt Ruth’s darling. Flowers bloomed on all 
sides and no weeds were allowed to enter there. Casting 
ourselves on the rustic seat, with the balmy breeze kiss- 
ing our cheeks and a red-bird refreshing us with his 
notes as he swung in the swaying bough above, Aunt 
Ruth poured out her heart’s history and as she told it 
to me I now tell to you. 

AUNT RUTH’S STORY. 

“Twenty years ago and yet it seems but yesterday 
that Nina came to live with us. Beautiful, bright-eyed 
little Nina; bringing sunshine wherever her presence 
was felt. To my parents she was a priceless treasure, 
bequeathed them by my mother’s dying sister; while to 
me she was the sole shadow in my pathway, the only 
cloud obscuring my life-sky. From the moment she en- 
tered our home I looked on her as a usurper — as one 
who had no right to the love that hitherto had all been 
my own. 

“Sweet, patient little Nina! Ah, if I could only 
have her by my side as in the olden time I would ask 
no sweeter pleasure than to smooth the rugged path for 
her little, tired feet, to kiss the tears from those trem- 


LITTLE NINA 


173 


bling eyelids and whisper that in all the world there has 
been none half so dear to me ! 

“But time rolls on and from the anguish of years 
gone by comes only the cry, ‘Too late.’ Up there, 
perhaps, where angel Nina has gone, I shall find peace 
for this aching heart, and rest in the presence of God. 

“I was only two years Nina Bernard’s senior and a 
romping girl of twelve, the very personification of health, 
with brown eyes and dark, curling hair. I was called a 
little beauty until her face shone in our midst, and then 
as a dethroned queen I felt my sceptre departing. Jeal- 
ousy filled my heart and brain and never a kind word 
did I give the little girl whose pleading eyes would fill 
with tears as she would say : 

“ ‘Ruth, don’t you love me?’ 

“I would turn abruptly from her side and push her 
from me and the sight of her weeping at my rudeness 
only caused my heart to harden. 

“My parents noticed my ill temper and unkindness 
to Nina, and at first only appealed to my better nature, 
but I grew worse and at one time they punished me se- 
verely. After that I was careful to betray no emotions 
of jealousy in their presence. 

“I knew Nina’s face was the loveliest I had ever 
gazed upon; fair as an angel’s with blue eyes and golden 
hair. She did not look like a child of earth, and as I 
recall the past it seems that none but a heart of stone 
could have resisted the sweet voice of that little girl. 
She was as frail as she was fair, and though almost my 
own age she did not look more than half my years. 

“She could not run and play as I did, for little Nina 
was a cripple, her feet were twisted, almost hideous to 
look at, and yet I envied her the beauty of her angel- 
face. 


174 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“When we would start to school at morning mama 
would kiss us both and tell me to walk by Nina’s side 
and lead her, for her feet could not keep pace with my 
active ones and she would often fall in trying to walk 
as fast as I did. I can now hear her bird-like voice say- 
ing: ‘Ruth, please wait, I can’t keep up with you.’ 
But I would hurry on and in harsh tones answer: 
“Come on Nina; you just don’t want to walk fast. I 
know if you would try you could walk as good as I can.” 
And often I would leave her while some kind school- 
mate would lead her to school. 

“It seems that I had no conscience or I would have 
felt a pang when she always spoke so lovingly and kindly 
tome; but my remorse came afterwards when I was 
powerless to prove to Nina how sorry I was for my way- 
wardness. Then I only wanted her out of my way and 
I cared not when or how she was taken. She could not 
go home for dinner on bad days although we lived near, 
and in loving tones she would request me to bring her 
something to eat. My answer, always cross and in a 
sneering manner would be : ‘Nina, I believe you think 
you are only a baby for me to wait on.’ 

“I have seen her burst into tears and go hobbling 
home while every moment she was in danger of falling 
and breaking some of her limbs; but I cared not; I al- 
most felt like I would rejoice over such an occurrence. 
I shall never forget her last day in school ; its events 
are imprinted on my memory in burning letters — letters 
that have haunted me all these years. She learned 
much faster than I did, which added fuel to the flame of 
jealousy, for I felt that she was my rival in everything 
pertaining to happiness. On this last day we sat to- 
gether in a large spelling class; a word after going 


LITTLE NINA 


175 


nearly all around the class, came to Nina, who in her 
low, sweet voice spelled it correctly; but seeing that the 
teacher did not understand, I spelled it the same -way in 
louder tones and passed to the head of the class. She 
gave me one reproachful look and tears rolled down her 
cheeks, but she said nothing. I returned her glance de- 
fiantly and with a revengeful feeling which makes me 
shudder even now as I recall it and think of the wicked 
expression that must have shown in my countenance. 

“Little did I dream that this would be my last look 
on that beautiful face, that when I again beheld her she 
would be changed beyond recognition. I went home 
that night with one of my schoolmates who lived a few 
miles in the country. The following morning 1 was 
sent for in great haste. A terrible accident had hap- 
pened ; Nina was burned almost to death! Oh! shall I 
ever forget my feelings when I reached home and stood 
by the bed-side of dying Nina? That sweet face was 
seared as w T ith a red hot iron, the long, curling eyelashes 
were scorched, the golden hair bronzed by the cruel 
flames, and the beautiful eyes closed, I thought, for- 
ever. But she opened them once and said, “Ruth.” 
I fell on my knees by her bedside while convulsive sobs 
shook my frame. I entreated forgiveness, imprinting 
kiss after kiss on the little hands. A smile lit up her 
face ; there was a slight tremor, and little Nina had 
gone to God. She had indeed been taken away ; but 
how desolate was I left! How I missed the precious 
little darling I had treated so cruelly ! I would have 
given half my life to hold her in my arms, feel her kisses 
on my face, and hear words of forgiveness from those 
lips now sealed in death. 

“My mother took me in her lap and tried to point 


176 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


me to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the 
world. But I was inconsolable and for days and weeks 
raved in wild delirium with brain fever brought on by 
grief and excitement. When the fever left me it seemed 
that years had been added to my age, and since then I 
have tried to live a better life. 

“When they told me that little Nina cried the night 
I staid from home and said she was lonely without Ruth; 
when I learned how she caught fire — that she was dress- 
ing my doll and lost her needle and in her search for it 
got too near the flames and was almost consumed ere 
help came — I realized that it was for me she gave up 
her young life, and all my cruelty and heartlessness came 
fresh to my memory and it seemed more than I could 
bear. I fled to this little mound that marks the spot 
where they laid her, and casting myself on it, besought 
Nina to come back to me. 

“Years have gone by since then and I feel that this 
one sorrow has whitened my hair and stamped my face 
with traces of care ; but there is a hope that lights up 
the future and makes my yoke easy. When the sum- 
mons of death comes, I feel that I shall go rejoicing, for 
up there in the Beautiful City I shall find my cherished 
Nina waiting for me.” 


I was sobbing audibly when Aunt Ruth finished her 
story and when I looked through my tears she was on 
her knees beside the little mound in an attitude of 
prayer. Directly she arose and her countenance was 
still lit up as if she had been communing with an angel. 

“Come, Nina, let us go home,” she said. “It will 
not be long until Aunt Ruth will be called to meet the 
little angel she so wronged.” 


LITTLE NINA 


177 


I have always believed in presentiments since then, 
for that very night I was summoned to Aunt Ruth’s 
bedside. The young physician of whom she had told 
me so much, and who had assisted in making my stay 
so pleasant, was there, and also the old housekeeper. I 
read in their countenances at once that there was no 
hope. It was heart disease, said Dr. Granville, to 
which she had been a great sufferer. All night we 
three watched by the side of the dying, and when the 
early grey morning came stealing through the open win- 
dow, she clasped my hand and placed in it that of Dr. 
Granvdle, and said as a sweet smile flitted over her face : 

“I am going; -Nina awaits me, and never more shall 
we be parted. Dr. Granville loves you, my earthly 
Nina, make him happy and live here in Aunt Ruth’s 
house ; it is yours. Keep sacred the little mound I so 
treasured, and meet me where my heavenly Nina dwells.” 
She sank back among the pillows and poor Aunt Ruth’s 
w T eary soul was at rest. 

After the funeral I returned to my city home, but 
was not allowed long to remain there. Ere my debut 
into society was made the next winter, Dr. Granville 
had claimed me as his bride. 

Aunt Ruth, it was found, had bequeathed me her 
vast estate and in her dear old home we reside. I have 
a little Nina now, and by the two graves we often sit 
while I tell her Aunt Ruth’s story. 


MY BROKEN LILY. 


Faint, weary and foot-sore, I traversed my lonely 
way through a barren plain, with lofty mountains loom- 
ing on either side. On and on I pressed through narrow 
gorges, with frightful chasms yawning sometimes at my 
very feet. No song of birds greeted my listening ears, 
no blooming flowers filled the air with fragrance, and no 
childish hand held on to mine in loving trust. In mu- 
test anguish, I had stood by the graves of loved ones. 
Childhood’s home had passed away. Alone I paused 
with only the hand of Faith to guide me through the 
darkness. Gently I was led into a valley where flowers 
bloomed in wildest profusion, and not faraway a broken 
Lily, the fairest of all, bowed her head in deepest sad- 
ness. Upward she looked to me in love, and gathering 
my treasure close in all her regal beauty, I imprinted 
kisses on her waxen lips. A smile of gladness lit up her 
snow T y face and I knew my presence had healed the 
broken flower. In my heart I reared a temple with spires 
of glittering whiteness pointing ever toward that “house 
not made with hands.” The windows were radiant with 
beams of love. Steps of burnished gold led up to the 
grand entrance. Within was an altar of precious stones, 
and ever fragrant with the odor of incense burning 
thereon. Here, in this Temple of Beauty, I placed my 
broken Lily, — pure, lovely and true — with a nobility 

178 


MY BROKEN LILY 


179 


and grandeur of soul pervading every breath that ex- 
haled from her sweet lips. Here Love’s offerings were 
brought, and queen of my temple, I crowned my broken 
Lily. Here the birds sang their notes of love, and the 
flowers bloomed, breathing love in their very fragrance. 
My heart overflowed with a happiness that lit up my 
temple with floods of sunlight. The days knew no 
shade of sorrow, and on bended knee, I thanked God 
for a gift so precious as my broken Lily. 

But a change came, — a day that hated to look on 
happiness. Faith no longer walked by my side, Hope 
and Love had plumed their wings for flight, the birds 
were hushed into silence, and the flowers became as dead- 
sea fruits. My temple, with all its magnificence, trem- 
bled and fell to the earth a mass of ruins, ’neath which 
are buried throne and queen and Hope and Love, and 
the night winds sweeping by ever whisper, — “Broken 
faith; buried hopes.” 


TO THE MEADOWS. 


There’s beauty in the rose’s blush, 

A fragrance in the breath of Spring ; 

There’s gladness in the sunshine’s glow, 

When dew-drops to the lilies cling ; 

There’s life within the meadows green 
Where silv’ry streamlets smoothly flow, 
Where perch and cat-fish dive and plunge 
In cooling waters far below. 

O, let me hie to meadows green, 

Where blooms the clover, red and white, 
Where butterflies, all gaily decked, 

Flit through the shimmering, dazzling light, 
Where busy bees suck up the sweets 
From out the honey-cups of gold, 

And roses pink, among the leaves 
Their glorious beauties all unfold. 

Away, away to meadows green, 

Where limpid brooklets calmly flow, 

Where zephyrs kiss the emerald sea, 

And grassy wavelets come and go. 

Where willows nod their graceful heads 
In th’ water’s mirroring crystal sheen, 

And daisies dot the meadow’s breast, 

With modest violets in between. 


180 


TO THE MEADOWS 


181 


My dreams flit o’er the em’rald sea 
To sunny isles of sweet Sometime, 
Where all my hopes will rest at last, 

On th’ glit’ring shores of sunny clime; 
My ship comes in with stores of years, 
That drifted o’er the boundless main, 
On Fancy’s isle of glint and gold 
My dreams will all be mine again. 


ETHEL HUNTINGTON'S LESSON. 


“Mamma, pease et me do pay wiv Willie Bennett,” 
said little Roy Huntington, as he came into the kitchen 
where his mother was hurrying to get dinner ready for 
the many workhands her husband kept employed on his 
farm. The day was warm, and with one little annoy- 
ance and another she was very much out of humor, and 
when little Roy addressed her she answered in impatient 
tones : 

“Get out of here, Roy, and don’t let me see you in 
here again ; I don’t care where you go, so you are out 
of my way.” 

The ringing tones of her voice had no sooner died 
away than here came Compton, the next older boy. 

“Mamma, I’m hungry; pease give me a piece of 
bread.” 

“Leave the room at once, Compton, and wait until 
dinner is ready.” 

“Mamma,” said Lulu, entering the kitchen, “I’m 
going to see May Herndon.” 

“Go on, go anywhere, do anything to give me a lit- 
tle peace ; you children are nothing but a nuisance, and 
I wish I didn’t have one in the world.” 

Little Roy’s big blue eyes opened wider with won- 
der at his mother’s frowning visage, for he had not gone 
to see Willie Bennett, but stood in the door-way waiting 

182 


ETHEL HUNTINGTON’S LESSON 


183 


for Compton, who had failed to get the bread his little 
stomach was craving. 

“Roy, if you and Compton come into this kitchen 
any m,ore to-day, worrying me, I will whip you both,” 
said Mrs. Huntington, slamming the stove door with 
snch violence that the little boys both jumped and star- 
ted at once for their play-ground. 

Mrs. Huntington went on with her work, sighing 
as she saw the wealthy Mrs. Arner drive by in her car- 
riage. 

“And I could have been Mrs. Arner, ’’she murmured, 
“but I let love blind me to everything, and took the 
poor physician. While my life is nothing but drudgery, 
with a houseful of children to worry me, hers is all sun- 
shine — no children, nothing to keep her from being 
happy.” 

She did not contrast her young, handsome husband 
with the gouty, cross, old Mr. Arner who, everybody 
said, was the husband of a woman that married him for 
his money. 

But Ethel’s thoughts wandered to her girlhood 
days, and she wished she had never married. “Any- 
thing but this life that is crushing out all the sweetness 
of my nature,” she thought, as she glanced at the door 
and saw that the sun had reached the twelve o’clock 
mark. Then, going to the door, she gave the farm bell 
an energetic ringing for the work-hands, after which she 
busied herself about setting the table. 

Ethel Huntington had been a beauty in her young 
days, and they were not so many years back, either. 
Many a suitor had bowed at her shrine, but Dr. Hunt- 
ington was the one her heart declared his king. They had 
started up life’s hill together, and he had tried to 


184 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


brighten his wife’s pathway all along; but the little 
ones had come and the farm life was hard, and, with 
this struggle and that, Ethel had grown bitter and was 
no longer the bright girl who had promised her husband 
so much happiness. 

The dinner hour was over, Lulu had not returned, 
and Roy and Compton had eaten their dinner in silence, 
excepting an occasional sob, for their ears were tingling 
with the slaps their mother had given each for 
for being so careless at the table. She had dismissed 
the little boys, and failed not to remind them that she 
wanted to rest and didn’t want to see their faces any 
more that afternoon. So the little fellows went out and 
threw themselves disconsolately on the grass under the 
shade of a spreading tree. 

“Tump, I d’wish we tould do to heaven,” said Roy 
as he cuddled up by his brother’s side, “do you weckon 
it’s very far off?” 

“1 dess not,” answered Compton, “for Willie Ben- 
nett’s little bruver has gone there, tause I heard Willie 
say so; but I don’t want to do the way his bruver went, 
tause he went in a white wobe an’ atoffin. I want to do 
in a buggy and wide wight into heaven’s date.” 

“You weckon Jesus would et us turn in, Tump, if 
we was to do a widin’? And maybe he’d dit tired of us, 
too, like mamma.” 

“Tourse he’d let us turn in, tause you know papa 
told us at Sunday-school how Jesus loves little children ; 
an’ I don’t b’lieve he’d dit tired of us either,” said 
Compton. 

“O ! I d’wish we tould do,” sighed Roy, “tause 
mamma don’t want us, sister don’t want us, an’ papa is 
always gone so he don’t know what he wants.” 


ETHEL HUNTINGTON’S LESSON 


185 


Just then Dr. Huntington drove up in his buggy. 

“Come, my little men,”he called to the boys, “come 
and hold my horse for me a minute until I run in and 
get some dinner.” Always glad to see their papa, the 
little boys bounded to the gate. “Just watch my old 
horse, Compton, and he will stand perfectly still until I 
am ready for him.” 

Compton and Roy did as their father directed, 
and he went hurriedly to eat his dinner, for he had 
other patients needing his attention. 

“Here is our buggy, Roy,” said Compton, “es dit 
in an’ do to heaven.” 

“Won’t papa stold?” said Roy. 

“No,” answered Compton, bravely, “not when he 
knows w^e are doin’ to heaven. I’m doin’ Roy; an’ if 
you want to be an angel you’ll have to hurry.” And 
with this Compton climbed into the buggy. 

“Tump, if you is doin’ su’ ’nough, I wani; to do, 
too.” 

“Well, jump in twick,” said Compton, and the next 
moment Roy was by Compton’s side, and the horse was 
moving. Feeling no strong hand held him, he started 
out at a rapid gait ; faster, faster he flew, and the rumb- 
ling of wheels reached the ears of Dr. Huntington, who 
got out only in time to see his horse running at utmost 
speed and carrying along the buggy — but where were 
the children? 

“Great heavens!” he exclaimed. 

They were in the buggy. The news soon spread, 
and friends and neighbors with wildly beating hearts 
sped after the runaways. 

“God in heaven, have mercy!” screamed Ethel as 
she fell fainting to the floor. 


186 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


On and on went the horse up hill, down hill, over 
bridges, and turning lanes, leaving the village far be- 
hind, while the little brothers, clasped in each other’s 
arms, thought they were, indeed, going to heaven. But 
the horse, having run his race, and being exhausted, fell 
in the harness, carrying the buggy and its occupants 
over with him. 

Dr. Huntington, far in advance of those who fol- 
lowed, from the top of a hill nearly half a mile away, 
saw the horse fall and the buggy overturn. Arriving 
at the spot, with a sickening heart, pale, haggard, and 
trembling in every limb, he closed his eyes a moment, 
that he might bear the shocking sight of his two little 
dead boys. What was his surprise when he had cour- 
age to look and two bright faces met his gaze, while 
Roy said : 

“Papa, we started to heaven.” 

Dr. Huntington clasped them both to his heart as 
he realized the full import of Roy’s words, and through 
his smiles and tears kissed them fondly. 

“Papa, what you twy for; tause you fink Jesus 
wouldn’t have us, eder?” asked Roy. 

“O ! Papa’s glad — glad to have his boys back” — he 
chokingly answered. 

Surely God had held them in the hollow of His hand, 
for not even the slightest bruise told of the fearful ride 
they had taken. The little boys were joyfully escorted 
home, and Ethel clasped them to her heart in a prayer 
of thanksgiving as she bathed their faces with her tears; 
and that night, as she knelt by the little darlings, she 
thanked God for giving back her boys. 

The following morning Dr. Huntington brought in 
a cook and a house-maid, and taking Ethel’s hand he 
led her into the parlor, saying : 


ETHEL HUNTINGTON’S LESSON 


187 


“My dear little wife, I feel that God has sent us 
this experience to teach us a lesson, for we were living 
for the sordid things of earth, forgetting' even our duty 
to our children. Now I am succeeding in my financial 
affairs beyond our fondest hopes, and there is no need of 
this life of drudgery I am imposing on you. Together 
we have struggled, henceforth your happiness shall be 
greater than even that of Mrs. Arner. Our hardships are 
over, and we will now enjoy the fruits of our labors.” 

Gompton and Roy are never driven from the house 
now, and Compton often says, 

“Roy, it’s a good thing we started to heaven, for it 
made mamma so much better.” 


TRUSTING. 


I am leaving it all to Jesus, 

For I think that he knows best, 

And he’ll send into my aching heart 
A sweet and peaceful rest. 

I am leaving it all to Jesus, 

Though the way seems lone and cold, 
Yet heavenward I am striving, 

He’ll lead me to his fold. 

I am leaving it all with Jesus, 

Though the tears bedim mine eyes, 
Through the mist I am looking to Him, 
Through the dark and starless skies. 

I am leaving it all with Jesus, 

He will give me a work to do 
That will lead me up the better way 
Through a life both good and true. 

I am leaving it all with Jesus, 

And I wait with faith to see 
All I’ve lost upon this dreary earth 
In heaven made good to me. 

188 


HOW MISS RHODY MARTIN CHEAT- 
ED THE CENSUS ENUMERATOR. 


The day-lilies in all their golden beauty, and the 
roses, from the Maiden’s Blush to the Hundred Leaf, 
bloomed about Miss Rhody Martin’s door. The Madeira 
vine, with its clusters of creamy blossoms, rich with 
fragrance, clambered over the porch, and the sparrows 
flitted in and out through the lattice-work, twittering as 
they built their nests under the eaves, or fed their hun- 
gry young. It was a balmy morning in June, and a slight 
breeze stiired the leaves and set the bees to humming as 
they sucked the sweets from the blooming flowers. A 
red-bird in a cage kept up a soul-inspiring melody in an- 
swer to one that haunted a neighboring rose bush where 
his mate sat complacently on her eggs. 

Out on the vine clad porch, Miss Rhody Martin, a 
spinster on the shady side of fifty, rocked to and fro, 
while the clicking of her knitting needles kept time to 
the music of her chair. 

Isaac Hughey, Miss Rhody’s nephew, a fair speci- 
men of manhood, sat not many paces away, half-buried 
in a newspaper, and with his feet resting on the banister 
higher than his head, true Kentucky style. He had 
come in from hoeing the cabbage to get a cool drink of 
water and for a moment’s rest, and he and Miss Rhody 
were all unconscious of the picture of sweet content- 
ment they were making. 


189 


190 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


Miss Rhody, notwithstanding she was called an old 
maid, and tried to look ten years younger than she 
really was, was a great favorite with the whole neighbor- 
hood, and Isaac was as great a favorite with the girls. 
Isaac was also a special pet of Aunt Rhody, though he 
did occasionally rally her on her youthful appearance, 
knowing that on this point she was extremely sensitive, 
never giving any one a .chance to inquire her age. 

This morning as she sat on the porch listening to 
the click of her needles and busy with her meditations, 
as if in obedience to her w T ishes, the gate opened and the 
object around whom her thoughts were clustering, came 
sauntering up the walk. A receptacle for his effects 
was swung across his shoulder after the manner of a 
book agent. The dog, asleep by Isaac, barked lazily 
once or twice, and then went back to his dreaming, 
while Miss Rhody looked over her spectacles, and, quick 
as lightning these unoffending friends of her failing 
vision went into her pocket. 

“Isaac, hit’s the Square,” said Miss Rhody, start- 
ing up, “and you had better go on to your work for he 
looks like he wanted to see me on important business.” 

By this time ’Squire Doolittle was nearing the steps. 
Isa-ac smiled at Miss Rhody’s cool dismissal of himself, 
and chuckled as he went to his work, for he knew Es- 
quire Doolittle had been appointed census enumerator, 
and, for once, Aunt Rhody would have to tell her age, 
and to the man she wanted to marry. 

Isaac was a lover of the ludicrous, and he would 
have given almost any sum to have heard the squire in- 
terrogating Aunt Rhody, but he was no eaves-dropper, 
so he went to work and soon his thoughts were all of 
the squire’s daughter, and Aunt Rhody was forgotten. 


RHODA MARTIN 


191 


“Good mornin’, Square,” said Aunt Rhody, “walk 
in and give an account of yourself; you’ve got to be a 
mighty stranger lately.” 

“How do you do, Miss Rhody,” said the squire 
shaking her hand cordially. 

“I’m not so mity well, thank you, Square; but the 
sight of an old friend sets the blood to tingling in my 
veins, and I forget my aches and pains, which I am hap- 
py to say are not very much my portion. But take a 
cheer, Square,” and she drew the chair Isaac had vaca- 
ted toward her own. “How does this purty June 
mornin’ find yo-u, Square?” 

“Never felt better in my life, Miss Rhody — never 
felt better in my life,” answered the squire, tipping his 
chair back and looking a little pompous. 

“You are looking monstrous fine, Square, but, as I 
said before, you’ve got to be a mity big stranger in these 
parts. And when I see you a-comin’ lookin’ for all 
the world like a book agent, I was tempted to set the 
dog on you, for I get so tired of so many trying to live 
without work.” 

“Thank you, Miss Rhody, I haint bin round in a 
bit n’r awhile, but the truth n’r hit is I haint had the 
time, nor I haint a minnit to lose this mornin’,” said the 
squire, and continuing: “No, Miss Rhody, I am not a 
book agent; you are greatly mistaken about that. I 
have come on business of greater importance,” and he 
drew his chair nearer the spinster, who was smiling and 
trying to blush as if she really thought the all-impor- 
tant time had come. 

“Miss Rhody,” said the squire, drawing his chair 
up still a little nearer, “I have come — ” 

“Yes, Square,” interrupted Miss Rhody, and her 


192 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


knitting fell into her lap, “I see you have come, and I 
am always pleased to have you come.” 

“But, Miss Rhody, I have come to take — ” 

“Yes, Square,” and she moved her chair a little 
nearer, “I know what you would say, and I am ready 
to—” 

“But, Miss Rhody, I have come to take your senses,” 
blurted out the squire. 

“Goodness! gracious, Square, not to take what 
little grain of sense I’ve got, shorely,” pretending not 
to understand the squire. 

“That’s somethin’ I can't do, Miss Rhody, take 
your senses away — you air too smart for that — entirely 
too sensible to let an old fellow like me turn your head, 
though I mought take your reason,” he said, smiling 
significantly at her. 

“Well, I am shore if my reason was gone, my senses 
would be gone too,” answered Miss Rhody poutingly. 

“But honest injun, Miss Rhody, I haint a moment 
to lose, time’s limited, and I’ve got to have this business 
done in a jiffy. I have come shore enough to take your 
senses. First place your Christian name in full and ini- 
tial of middle name.” 

“You don’t swar me, Square, to tell the truth, noth- 
in’ but the truth, so help me God, do you?” 

“No, Miss Rhody, I’ll take your word for any- 
thing. 

“Your name, now T , please,” he said persuasively. 

“Rhody Ann Sarah-fine Matilda Jane Martin, 
’nitial and all,” answered Miss Rhody. 

“Very well done,” answered the squire, writing it 
down. So one question after another w T as asked until 
the sixth question in the schedule was reached. 


RHODA MARTIN 


193 


“Now Miss Rhody, if you please,” and the squire 
bent over, looked into Miss Rhody’s face and said, “what 
mought be your age at your last birthday?” 

“My age, Square?” and there was a startled look 
in Miss Rhody’s eyes as she tried to gather fresh courage 
and take in a full breath. 

“Yes,” answered the squire, “how old mought you 
be at your nearest birthday?” 

“Well, you see, Square, I was the youngest of a 
large family of children. I was called the baby even 
after I was grown, and the way they all doted on me 
was no ’countin’ for. Why Pap willed this farm to 
me ’cause I was the baby, and you never see anything 
produce like these acres do. Isaac raises — ” 

“Miss Rhody, I haint got a moment to spare. You 
will please tell me your age in as few words as you ken 
kommand.” 

“I was going to tell you, Square, the day I was 
sweet sixteen Pap give me a birthday party, and Betsy 
Brown was thar, but she was a heap older than I was — 
hit was Betsey Crater then — and she was a crater 
shore enuff, I tell you. She thought Tim Brown was 
a-settin’ up to me and she wuz that jellus she had no 
sense at all. She — ” 

“Miss Rhody, time’s limited,” said the squire a 
little impatiently, with his pen tightly grasped and 
reeking with ink, for he had dipped it in the ink-stand 
a half dozen times ready to write down Miss Rhody’s 
age. 

“Your age, I say, Miss Rhody.” 

“I was going to tell you, Square, thar’s Miss Ed- 
wards, first cousin to Betsey Crater, and she was a 
schoolmate of mine, but law, she was a heap older too, 


194 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


than me. She’s larnt me my lessons and led me home 
many a day. She — ” 

“Miss Rhody, I must know your age. I tell you 
my time is limited,” said the squire, the faintest tinge 
of red creeping into his face. 

“Jist what I started out to tell you, Square. Isaac, 
you know, is my nephew? Well, his mother was my sis- 
ter and a little grain older than me. But law, she’s been 
dead several years. She was monstrous pretty, my sis- 
ter was, and everybody said we war as like as two peas. 
Isaac makes me think n’r her lots n’r times. Isaac is 
sich — ” 

“Miss Rhody, must have your age,” interrupted 
the squire; “no time to spare — time’s limited. Your 
age, Miss Rhody, at once.” By this time the squire be- 
gan to be highly colored, and beads of perspiration be- 
gan to gather and trickle down his nose. 

After all the June morning was not so balmy. 

“Yes, yes, Square, I was going to tell you. When I 
begin to manage this farm, I was a chunk of a gal, and 
no gal uv my age could have done better. I have got 
along too, Square, always have somethin’ to sell and I 
don’t owe a cent. I — ” 

“Miss Rhody,” said the squire in exasperation, 
“shall I write down refused?” 

“Refused, Square,” said Miss Rhody in great aston- 
ishment; “refused, no you shant, fur I haint refused 
you yit. You haint axed me, and nobody feels more for 
your motherless gal than I do. You see, I loved her 
mother, your poor dead and gone wife, Square. We 
were gals together, but, laws ! she was a heap older than 
me. Yes, I know your darter needs a mother and I 
haint refused you, Square, nary time I haint.” 


RHODA MARTIN 


195 


“Refused me, Miss Rhody?” and a new light 
seemed to break upon the Squire. “Is.it possible you 
would be a mother to my little Nancy? Will you marry 
me, Miss Rhody?” and he drew nearer and threw his 
arm over the back of her chair. 

“Why, Square, if — if — you think I am old enough,” 
stammered Miss Rhody, “I will take your wife’s place 
and be a mother to your little Nancy, but Nancy’s 
mother was a heap older than I am.” 

Miss Rhody’s cook rang the bell for dinner, Isaac 
came from his work, and still the squire and Miss Rhody 
lingered on the porch. 

“Thought your time was limited, Squire,” said 
Isaac playfully. 

“So it is, Isaac, so it is, but I’ll ketch up,” said the 
squire. 

So, before the census was taken, Miss Rhody be- 
came Mrs. Squire Doolittle, and the squire and his lovely 
daughter came to Miss Rhody’s home to live. Isaac is 
very happy with Nannie, as he calls her, and rumor says 
before many months there will be another wedding at 
Miss Rhody’s home. 

The squire completed the census, sent in his report, 
but of one thing we are very sure — Miss Rhody never 
told her age. 


THE JACKSONVILLE SCOURGE. 


Jacksonville, Fla , September 8. — Dark overhead. 
Heavy black clouds chasing each other across the wild 
gray expanse above, the wind blowing tempestuously 
and the rain falling in blinding torrents. Still darker 
below is this city. With its rapidly increasing number 
of new cases of fever and the constant addition to the 
list of the dead, it is no wonder that Jacksonville people 
feel discouraged and almost ready to give up the fight 
and calmly await the destroyer’s rapid advance. 


There is gloom in the heart of the nation, 

And she pales at the fatal breath 
Of the enemy that lurks on her borders, 

Whose quiver is filled with death. 

He has come on the sultry breezes 

From the land of the orange and lime, 

And has entered our Sunny Southland 
And infected Florida’s clime. 

****** 
Dark were the heavens, but darker the city — 

The fair Southern city, now sad as a dirge — 

And wild was the gale that swept from old ocean. 

But wilder the people that fled from the scourge. 
On came the fever— the fierce yellow fever — 
Humbling the city so low in the dust, 

Leveling the ranks of wealth and of beauty. 

Dealing alike with the evil and just. 

196 


THE JACKSONVILLE SCOURGE 


197 


Magnificent steamers had sailed on her waters, 

And commerce was proud to come to her shore : 

And those seeking health had always found welcome 
In the city that now finds “no open door.” 

She was proud of her lands and proud of her people, 

Of her climate balmy with the ocean’s breath: 

Of her fruits and her orange groves, heavily laden, 

And all’s now a region of fever and death. 

And all the great South, so new in her splendor, 

But old in the sorrows that threaten her now, 

Is trembling with fear from ocean to ocean. 

And humiliation sits on her brow. 

Out from the city— the devastated city — 

Kissed by the waves of the rolling St. John, 

The infection is creeping from town, lake and river, 

And the inmates are fleeing, pallid and wan. 

A train sped Northward, heavily freighted 

With refugees frantic with grief and fright, 

But quarantine strict was ever before them. 

So onward they went in the darkness of night. 

Atlanta had closed her doors of admission: 

Chattanooga, too, was locked up in fear, 

While Nashville had placed her guards upon duty, 

With the watchword, u ’Tis death to all who come near.” 

Quarantined on the north by those she had succored. 
Quarantined on the east, quarantined on the west, 

Quarantined on the south by disease and starvation — 

Oh, where will they find a haven of rest? 

Still on sped the train, with no destination, 

No beacon light appeared to their view: 

And the coaches were groaning with five hundred people— 
A homeless, wandering, plague-stricken crew. 

But an all-seeing eye is ever upon us— 

An eye that will mark even the sparrow’s fall— 

And a hand stretches out to us through the darkness, 

And an ear’s ever ready to give heed to our call. 


198 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


The Father looked down in pitying tenderness, 

While angels drew near and held fast their breath 

Who would open doors to his grief-stricken children? 
Who give a welcome even unto death? 

Like a sunburst through mist and through darkness, 
Louisville came forward and proffered her aid : 

Opened her doors to health and contagion, 

And self was forgotten in the sacrifice made, 

And God smiled in love on the generous city, 

And angels bent low and dropped each a tear: 

It was humanity crying to heaven for mercy, 

And humanity helping humanity here. 

And long in their hearts will the grateful Southrons 
Treasure the memory of the noble deed 

Of the city that heeded their cry of distress, 

And fearlessly came to her country’s need. 

And long will the horrors of the Jacksonville scourge 
Haunt, like a spectre, the bright land of flowers. 

God grant that never again such a plague 

Shall fall, like a blight, on this fair land of ours. 


GERANIUMS. 


Only a box of Geraniums, 

Dewy, and fragrant, and sweet, 

Yet a message of love they whisper 
As my lips their soft petals meet. 

Tired hands have lingered around them, 
Dim eyes have given a smile, 

And my tears are falling like rain-drops, 
For memory is busy the while. 

I see a bride at the altar, 

I look through the anguish of years, — 
A mother, patient and weary, 

Toils on as eternity nears. 

Toils on through care and oppression, 
Toils on as her life ebbs low, 

But these flowers, like guardian angels, 
Have lighted her sorrows we know. 

For they tell of the toil-spent Savior, 
Ever ready our burdens to bear, 

They tell of His love, ail-enduring, 

And the crowns the sainted shall wear. 

I think that the dear hands so loving, 
That have culled these flowers for me 
Will find their treasures awaiting 
Across the far away sea. 

199 


200 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


When the fetters of life are all broken, 
Tired hands will weary no more, 

For she’ll stand by the side of the Master, 
Gath’ring flowers on the glittering shore. 


MAUD BELMONT’S TEST; 

OR, 

HOW SHE SAW HARRY CLEVELAND IN HIS 
TRUE CHARACTER. 


“My life is cold, and dark, and dreary, 

It rains, and the wind is never weary, 

My thoughts still cling to the mold’ring past, 

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 

And the days are dark and dreary.” 

The preceding stanza was slowly repeated by a girl 
as she sat by the w T indow of an old-fashioned country 
school-house watching the dead leaves whirled by the 
autumn winds. 

“Yes, my life is cold and dark and dreary and my 
thoughts, regardless of all the pride I can summon to 
my aid, still cling to the moldering past,” she whis- 
pered, and heaved a deep sigh as she drew her shawl 
closer and bowed her head on the rude desk. She took 
from its hiding place a delicately perfumed note and 
even then its very fragrance breathed of the false heart 
that dictated its contents. It ran thus: 

“Miss Belmont— I presume our summer’s dream is over, 
since you can no longer trust me with a good-bye kiss. 
Please return my ring and letters. Hoping you will soon 
forget our little flirtation, I am still 

“Your friend, 

“Harry Cleveland.” 


201 


202 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“And it was only a flirtation,” she said, as she 
drew from her finger the ring be had placed there so 
many months since. There was a hopeless look in her 
eyes as she remembered the June evening long ago when 
he asked her to give her heart into his sacred keeping, 
and placed on her finger the little hand of gold and told 
her that she should be his wife. What a look of scorn 
supplanted the hopeless expression as she thought 
of all this ! Now she felt tempted to toss it out of the 
window among the leaves of scarlet, brown and gold, 
that the sighing winds were whirling in the driving 
rain! Tf only the winds would bear the ring away for- 
ever ! 

. She put the little golden circlet and all his letters, 
even the cruel missive last received, together in her 
desk, locked it, and went to her class, just called, with 
a calm indifference as if her heart were not breaking all 
the while. If at noon and recess she did not enter into 
the children’s sports, which she seldom did, she was not 
missed, for she was what the pupils called a strange, 
dreamy girl who would rather scribble than play. But 
hers was a rather gifted nature, and all earth’s beauties 
had for her a language. Maud Belmont’s life had been 
void of that sunshine that fills up the existence of happy 
children. Orphaned at an early age, she had but faint 
remembrance of the sweet, pale mother who was ever 
the angel of her dreams. Her nearest surviving relative 
was her mother’s brother who lived in Colorado. He 
had written for the child, but she had fallen into the 
care of her father’s uncle and aunt, two old people who 
were unwilling to give her up. She had lived with no 
companionship save that of these old people, and what 
the district school, five months in the year afforded her. 


MAUD BELMONT’S TEST 


203 


The uncle and aunt were cross-natured and querulous, 
and failed to appreciate a nature so gifted as Maud’s. 
To her there was music in the sighing winds, the rip- 
pling brooks, and the wild bird-notes that came so full 
of joy, across the meadows. She grew up with a strange 
longing for something better than she had known, a 
higher life, a glimpse into that world beyond the great 
line of blue-capped hills that seemed to shut her in like 
a prisoner. Her home was a rude log house that stood 
at the foot of a lofty hill two miles back of the village, 
Dunmore. She had walked here to school of mornings, 
and on her return of ‘evenings had done the work for 
the old people, with only their scoldings and complaints 
to cheer her and encourage her lonely life. But she was 
an apt scholar and always bore off the prizes at school 
above a number of competitors ; yet this did not satisfy 
her cravings for a different life, and the companionship 
of books. 

One day an event transpired that changed the whole 
current of her being. She had been sent by her aunt to 
the village to make some purchases. She had walked, 
as usual, and the exercise and fresh morning air had 
rouged her cheeks until they vied with the peach blos- 
soms in their pinkish hue. Her eyes were bright and 
sparkling, and the face that peeped ’neath the blue sun- 
bonnet was very attractive, or, at least, the new clerk 
thought so as he stood behind the counter and greeted 
her pleasantly, asking what he could do for her. 

This was an entirely different picture from what 
she had expected to see, for had she not beheld the gruff 
old merchant in his accustomed place ever since she could 
remember? And to see a handsome young man there 
was as if something magical had occurred. He was 


204 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


charmed at once with the lovely eyes and fair face of 
the girl. This was Maud Belmont’s and Harry Cleve- 
land’s first meeting. With Maud all was changed; life 
seemed to have new claims on her, and as she wended 
her way home she sang softly with a glad, happy feel- 
ing at her heart. 

Mr. Shelton was the only merchant of which Dun- 
more could boast, and Harry Cleveland was his nephew. 
Young Cleveland’s father was a resident of a distant 
city and was quite wealthy, but his eldest son Harry 
had become dissipated, and had been sent to this se- 
cluded, rural retreat with the hope that when away from 
the temptations of city life he would reform. Harry 
thought for a while that such a life among the hills of 
Kentucky would be unendurable, but when Maud Bel- 
mont’s face beamed on him light sprang out of darkness 
and he thought, after all, that a summer in Dunmore 
would not be so cheerless. He was twenty-one, and fully 
acquainted with the ways of society; she was only six- 
teen, and guileless as an angel. So began our heroine’s 
first dream of love, for now all of Harry Cleveland’s 
leisure hours were spent with her, and side by side they 
wandered over the hills and valleys, while in her ears 
rang words of love. After a while she wore his ring 
(the ring that so many had worn before), and he had 
told her that some day she should be his wife. 

Many glowing descriptions had he given of that far 
away city home, and she had wondered how she would 
be received there. And, oh, the bliss that filled her 
heart at the thought of being ever at his side ! Many 
and many times had their lips met in a kiss of love, and 
so complete had been her faith in the lover’s vows 
of constancy that not once had she refused him the 


MAUD BELMONT’S TEST 


205 


boon he always claimed until the visit that proved his 
last. 

On this eventful evening they had wandered here 
and there gathering flowers until Maud’s cheeks were 
flushed and her eyes shone with the happiness born of 
love, and she was, indeed, a very queen of beauty. 

“Be seated, my lovely queen,” Harry said, as he led 
her to a ledge of rocks; “allow me to crown you,” and 
he placed a garland of autumn’s treasures on her head. 
“Now will my lovely queen bestow on me a kiss?” he 
said, as he bent low over her blushing face. 

“No, Harry,” she answered, as she drew away from 
him. “I cannot; I am not going to kiss you any more 
until, until — ” 

“You are my wife?” he asked. “Oh! that may be 
a long time, and I cannot wait.” 

“But you will have to wait, ” she replied; “fori 
do not believe it is right.” 

“Oh, you lit le prude !” he said, “give me my kiss ;” 
and again he bent over her. 

“No, I cannot,” she persisted, and this time shrank 
away from him as if in fear: “I am sorry that I ever 
kissed you.” 

When she first refused she only meant to try him, 
but now as he grew more earnest, she felt that she was 
doing right. But Harry grew very indignant and left 
her side without a word of good-bye. 

She stood watching him across the distant hills 
with a little tremor of fear lest he would not return; 
but hope whispered that he was only trying her, and 
she sat down on the ledge of rocks waiting his return. 
But he did not come back, and she sat there until the 
flowers were withered and the long gray shadows began 


206 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


to fall over the hill tops, and the forest to grow dusky 
in the waning light ; then with a sickening dread she 
did not understand, she groped her way to the house. 

On the following morning the note, to which refer- 
ence has been made, was placed in her hands. That 
evening she returned his letters and all mementoes of 
him, and went home from school with a sadder heart 
than she had ever known. It seemed that all the dreari- 
ness of earth was settling forever on her life, that she 
had grown, oh, so old since yesterday. But the awaken- 
ing had come; she now saw Harry Cleveland in his true 
light, and she felt that it was her good angel that had 
prompted her to test his love. But so many changes 
came into her life in the few days that followed that 
the remembrance of this was as recalling something way 
in the past ; for when she reached home that evening 
she found a stranger awaiting her, and it was none other 
than her uncle who had so long wished to adopt her. 

How much, he thought, she was like the sister he 
had loved and lost, and when he clasped her in his arms 
and called her his own little girl, she knew she had at 
last anchored at home. He had come to break her bonds, 
she thought. And though her old uncle and aunt knew 
they must now relinquish all claims to their little work- 
ing girl, still it was with some degree of unwillingness, 

Maud was not long in packing her scant wardrobe, 
and the following morning, with her dear uncle, Dr. 
Worthington, she was en route for Denver, Colorado. 
What a -world of beauty spread out before her vision 
when she had passed beyond the chain of hills which en- 
circled her home, and which she had seen ever since she 
could remember, the first thing of a morning and the 
last thing at night! But now she had passed safely be- 


MAUD BELMONT’S TEST 


207 


yond these barriers, and drank in the glories of the outer 
world. The broad acres of farm lands, dotted here and 
there with beautiful groves and elegant houses, the im- 
mense stretches of forests, the streams and rivers 
spanned with bridges, the villages and cities, and, at 
last, the towering mountains, hiding their snow-capped 
summits in misty cloud-land, all these held her enchanted. 

Dr. Worthington, though he did not know of the 
barren life to which his sister’s child had been subjected, 
determined to spare nothing that would conduce to her 
happiness. He was wealthy and childless ; and his wife, 
one of the best of women, gave Maud a welcome home 
that she could not very soon forget. 

Three years have roiled by and the orphan niece has 
fully repaid the loved uncle and aunt for the money they 
have lavished upon her. She has made rapid progress 
in her studies, and has been graduated with the highest 
honors. So we find her at nineteen a reigning belle with 
many admirers. 

The pang at her heart has long since passed away, 
and she thinks of the affair with Harry Cleveland as 
only a girlish fancy, a passing summer’s dream, for a 
deeper, purer love now fills her cup, and, to-night, as 
she puts the finishing touches to her toilette, she thinks 
of him whose diamond glitters on her finger; then her 
thoughts wander to Dunmore, and to that little gold 
band that once made earth like heaven seem. She laughs 
scornfully as she thinks how foolish she was to grieve 
for such a being as Harry Cleveland. 

Radiantly beautiful she enters the parlor, for this 
is her birthday, and a reception has been given in her 
honor. Later in the evening Allen Barrett, her lover, 
stood by her side and said : 


208 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“I have an old school-mate present to night, allow 
me to introduce him,” and ere Maud Belmont was aware, 
she stood face to face once more, with the idol of her 
first girlish dreams. There was a mutual recognition, 
and after a few moments’ conversation, Allen Barrett 
left them together. 

Soon Harry led Maud out on the veranda ; standing 
in the moonlight, he again told her of his love, and 
when Maud laughed mirthlessly, he said : 

“You have forgotten me, Maud, you love me no 
more. Could you not remember me a few brief years?” 

“And why should I remember you?” she asked. 
“Do you not see this ring on my finger? That says I 
am soon to be the wife of a man loyal and true, one 
who has my whole heart, and will never desert me. 
Why should I remember that summer’s dream? Surely, 
Mr. Cleveland forgets that it was ‘only a flirtation;’ ” and 
with that she left his side, while Allen Barrett met her 
at the door and linking her arm in his they went down 
the broad walk, and she told him when and where she 
had known Harry Cleveland. 

Allen Barret and Maud Belmont were happily mar- 
ried. Harry Cleveland became a resident of Denver, 
and Maud never sees him but she thanks her good for- 
tune for the test that led her to see him in his true 
character. 


THE LONE GRAVE IN THE SOUTH. 

SONG AND CHORUS. 


Far away ’neath Southern skies 
Where snowy magnolias bloom, 

I’ve laid away my dearest hopes 
In the cold and silent tomb 
Flowers deck that lowly mound, 

The birds a requiem sing, 

While rambling zephyrs come and go, 
As they sweet incense bring. 


chorus — 

In fancy I am once again, 

With visions of my youth, 

And oft in dreams I’m kneeling by 
The lone grave in the South, 
And oft in dreams I’m weeping by 
That lone grave in the South. 


The ivy twines its tendrils round 
The stones so cold and white, 

The orange lends its sweet perfume 
To the sad and silent night. 

209 


210 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


The gleaming stars look softly down 
On the scene so calm and still, 

The pale moon sheds her mellow rays 
O’er valley and o’er hill. 

CHO. 

In fancy I am once again, 

With visions of my youth, 

And oft in dreams I’m kneeling by 
The lone grave in the South, 

And oft in dreams I’m weeping by 
That lone grave in the South, 

Like funeral palls, the long gray moss 
Hangs from the branches low, 

The wailing winds moan drearily 
As they sway it to and fro, 

The murmuring waves sing a lullaby 
O’er the cradle of the deep, 

As if to still the ocean’s roar 
Into a quiet sleep. 

CHO. 

In fancy I am once again, 

With visions of my youth, 

And oft in dreams I’m kneeling by 
The lone grave in the South. 

And oft in dreams I’m weeping by 
That lone grave in the South. 

The sunshine comes with golden light, 
And sparkling dew drops stay 
In flower cups so soft and sweet, 
Where straying sunbeams play. 


THE LONE GRAVE IN THE SOUTH 


211 


Fond mem’ry lingers near that grave 
O’er which I sadly weep, 

While angels from a distant shore 
Their constant vigils keep. 


OHO. 

In fancy I am once again, 

With visions of my youth, 

And oft in dreams I’m kneeling by 
The lone grave in the South. 
And oft in dreams I’m weeping by 
That lone grave in the South. 


AFTER MANY YEARS. 


A CHRISTMAS STORY. 


“ ’Twas night in the beautiful city, 

The famous and wonderful city, 

The proud and magnificent city — 

The Queen of the North and the West.” 

Coldly the stars looked down on the beautiful snow 
enshrouding the city, and the full moon lent her silvery 
sheen to the icy glitter on turret and spire ; but there 
was warmth within the stately buildings and there was 
happiness around many a fireside. It was Christmas 
Eve and lights gleamed in the spacious halls as 
heralds of the coming holiday. There was life and mer- 
riment in the quick step and rude jest, while “Merry 
Christmas! Merry Christmas !” was heard above the 
din until a thousand voices were echoing the joyful 
sound. 

“My God, such anight!” and a woman thinly clad 
bearing a child in her arms, drew her tattered shawl 
closer and trudged on through the dense crowd and 
piercing wind. Sometimes she was pushed off the side- 
walk by the jeering mass; again the way must be given 
for the light hearted belles and beaux of bon ton society. 
No one heeded the weary pilgrim, for the cities are 
filled to overflowing with the poverty stricken and crime 

212 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


213 


stained. She gathered the child closer to her bosom as 
she pressed onward, for it was numb with cold and a 
heavy slumber was stealing over it. Already she had 
bared her own shoulders to the wintry blast and wrap- 
ped the infant in her tattered shawl. 

“Great heavens ! must we die together to-night?” 
muttered the woman as she stood half in the shadow, 
leaning against one of the massive columns of a lofty 
structure. “I cannot travel much further, sweet child, 
and where we shall find rest for our tired limbs I know 
not. It is hard to perish in this beautiful city, and yet 
we are denied even a shelter. It must be retribution 
hunting me down for my great sin, but I never meant 
to wrong thee. All day have I wandered over the snow 
clad prairie, sometimes almost run over by the reckless 
engine, sometimes almost buried in snow drifts by the 
sweeping winds. I thought revenge was sweet, but 
alas ! this is my revenge — to die in sin-cursed Chicago, 
away from the tent fires and the home scenes I loved so 
well.” 

A light across the street smiled invitingly at her, 
and rallying all her strength she essayed to get admit- 
tance there. 

“Carlton,” she read on the door-plate. “It is the 
very place.” Nervously clutching the bell she sank 
half fainting on the door steps as the servant answered 
the summons. The inanimate form was carried in and 
restoratives soon brought back the flickering flame of 
life. Shelter and food were given her for the night, and 
in the morning, like all her race, she had folded her 
tent and silently stolen away leaving the child asleep in 
its innocence. Mrs. Burman, the housekeeper, thought 
she never saw a prettier picture as she gazed at the 


214 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


sleeping infant with its long flowing curls and silken 
eye-lashes. She thought of her own wee darling laid 
away to rest not many months since, and this little stray 
lamb touched a tender cord in the woman’s heart. She 
hoped Mr. Carlton would not send it away, for it was 
just what he needed to brighten his life. She contrasted 
the fair face with the dark features of the pauper in 
whose bosom it had nestled, and she thought after all 
there must have been some remnant of the mother still in 
that woman’s heart, for she had bared her own form to 
the wintry blasts that she might protect her child. 
Then Mrs. Burman left the little girl to her dreams. 

It w’as Christmas day, and a man muffled in furs sat 
at a window in one of the palace cars speeding on toward 
Chicago. The wfind whirled the snow-flakes in eddying 
gusts, but the great engine with panting breath and 
gleaming nostrils moved on with its precious cargo of 
human souls. The man looked over the barren waste 
and thought how much it w T as like his life. Having 
buried his father in sunny France he had hastened home 
to clasp to his heart once more his fondly loved wife, 
but alas! he could find no trace of her. For three years 
he had been haunting different cities peering into every 
feminine face in the hope of finding the one dearer than 
all the world beside. Last Christmas it was New York 
city he wandered hopelessly over, this time it was St. 
Louis, and he was going home from a search more fruit- 
less than ever. Night had again settled over the city, 
and with a sigh of relief Phil Carlton entered his home 
out of the wind and the snow. A cheerful fire burned 
in the grate, his dressing gown lay on his easy chair and 
his slippers were drawn up in their accustomed place. 
In one corner sat a little girl about four years of age 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


215 


gazing into the fire as if in deep thought. She looked 
up in amazement at the intruder, and he wondered if 
she were a spirit come to mock him with the bitter past. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

Going to his side she looked up into his face with 
perfect trust and answered : 

“lam Bonnie.” 

“Bonnie who?” 

“Just Bonnie, that’s all.” 

Mr. Carlton having seated himself she climbed up 
into his lap and nestled her golden head on his bosom. 

“Bonnie,” he repeated. Ah! how that name car- 
ried him back to other days, and he felt that this Bonnie 
was sent to cheer his lonely life. 

Mrs. Burman found them a few moments later and 
knew that the child had anchored at home and would 
not be sent aw T ay. 

Phil Carlton’s life had been a checkered scene, with 
very little happiness to gild its outlines. He had in- 
dulged in bright dreams of the future and a portion of 
them had been realized only to be blighted when fast 
approaching their consummation. The only son of a 
doting father, reared in the lap of wealth, with every 
w T ish of his heart gratified, he bade fair to become a man 
of promise. Perhaps his early days w’ould have been 
crow T ned with success had he but known the sweet influ- 
ence of a mother’s love. But he was deprived of this 
boon at an early age, and his father anticipating all his 
wants left him to the dictates of his own will. He was 
early sent to college, and for a while made rapid prog- 
ress. But, alas, he soon learned the vices of the world 
and night after night he was at the gaming table, 
staking and losing. Here he became involved in a ser- 


216 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


ious difficulty, and was either forced to bear the disgrace 
of expulsion or to leave the town. He chose the latter, 
and falling in with a band of gypsies spent a few months 
in their encampment. While here he was seized with 
a slow fever, and it was to a dark-eyed gypsy girl they 
called Elfa, that he owed his life. She nursed him back 
to health and he knew that the soft touch of the maid- 
en’s hand upon his brow, and the love-lit eyes bent ear- 
nestly upon him meant more than friendship. A sense 
of gratitude that he mistook for love pervaded his heart, 
and without premeditation he offered her his hand in 
marriage. No sooner had he done so than he fully real- 
ized the repulsiveness of a marriage with a gypsy. The 
words of Tennyson came ringing through his brain : 

“I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 
gains ! 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower 
pains, 

* ‘Mated with a squalid savage— what to me were sun or 
clime? 

I the heir of all ages, in the foremost files of time?” 

Would the day ever come when he could introduce 
her into society, or must he forever wander aimlessly 
through life with a band of gypsies? Mated with a 
squalid savage ! The very thought was maddening. He 
saw no way out of the dilemma but to seize the earliest 
opportunity to make his escape. This he carried into 
execution, and ere the morning sun had risen was on a 
train westward bound. Arriving at a small village 
•called Oakland, he was fortunate enough to procure em- 
ployment as a clerk in a dry-goods store. Like the 
prodigal son he sought his father’s forgiveness and was 
soon restored to favor. It was during his stay here 
that love flitted across his pathway, awakening an am- 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


217 


bition that had lain dormant, creating within him higher 
hopes and loftier aims. The ideal of his dream was a 
beautiful girl with all of Nature’s adornments and as 
pure as she was beautiful. Again there were barriers 
in his way. She was poor and he knew his father would 
never consent to their union, for already the match-mak- 
ing old man had selected an heiress to be the bride of 
his son. Left entirely to the dictates of his own will 
when a child, in manhood he could not be controlled in 
a matter that lay so near his heart, so he persuaded the 
charming Bonnie Dundee to a secret marriage and for a 
brief while they lived happily together in wedded bliss. 
Then a cloud cast its shadow where before had been 
naught but sunshine. A telegram came summoning Phil 
to the bedside of his father. It was with gloomy fore- 
bodings that he wended his way this evening toward 
Widow Dundee’s cottage, and the lights gleaming on the 
distant hills from a gypsy encampment brought back 
visions of Elfa and that autumn in the Maumee valley. 
A figure glided across his pathway and he caught the 
low, distinct words — “I’ll be revenged.” 

Were those words intended for him? and what did 
they mean? As if in answer to his interrogation came 
from out the woodlands the soft, sweet, wierd notes of 
a man’s voice singing: 

“She brings me joy, she brings no woe, 

She lingers ever by my side ; 

She brings me all the bliss I know — 

Does Elfa sweet, my gypsy bride.” 

There was sadness in the sighing winds and waving 
branches surrounding the little cottage, but there was a 
light in the window and someone waited at the door for 
him. 


218 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“ ’Tis sweet to know there’s an eye will mark our 
coming and grow brighter when we come.” And Phil 
Carleton bent down and kissed the rosy lips of her he 
loved. 

“I am the bearer of sad news, Bonnie,” he said, and 
threw himself on a rustic seat on the veranda. 

“What is it, Phil?” she asked as she sat down be- 
side him and leaned her head against his shoulder. 

“I have come to say good-bye, little wife, but I hope 
it will be only for a short w T hile. I have just received a 
telegram saying that my father is very ill and that I 
must come immediately.” 

“Oh, Phil! how can I bear to have you leave me? 
All the afternoon I have had a presentiment that some- 
thing would transpire to bring sorrow to my heart. I 
fear you will never come back.” 

“Do not indulge in such thoughts, darling. Noth- 
ing but death shall prevent my return. I wish you could 
accompany me, but it is not best now. It is train time 
and I must bid you adieu. I will write often and I hope 
my letters will help to break the monotony of your 
lonely life.” 

With eyes dewy with tears and lips wet with kisses, 
she stood in the doorway and watched his receding form, 
little dreaming when and where they would meet again. 

The first letter brought a sad blow to her heart. 
Phil’s father had passed the crisis of his disease but the 
physician urged an immediate trip to Europe, lest he 
should never regain his health ; and Phil must accom- 
pany him. She must keep up a brave heart; he would 
leturn as soon as his father’s health would admit — mean- 
while he hoped to reconcile the old gentleman to their 
union, but it would not do to speak of it now. 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


219 - 


Bonnie was very white when she read this letter. 
A trip to Europe! Why, the very thought almost took 
• away her breath. Did he not know — could he not guess 
what might take place in all that time? and where would 
be her good name? 

Ere long a letter came to Mrs. Dundee from her 
brother, who several years before had gone West, and 
having accumulated an immense fortune, had settled in 
St. Louis. He had recently been bereaved of his wife, 
and being all alone, wanted his sister to come and live 
with him. Here they found refuge, a friend and pro- 
tector. 

No news had come from Phil since he had sailed and 
Bonnie’s heart was aching for a sight of the face and a 
sound of the voice that she loved so well. A year had 
gone by and still no tidings from the absent one. O 
how she wished that he would come and clasp in a fath- 
er’s embrace the babe that was now by her side. But 
time grew gray with watching and waiting, and in bit- 
ter anguish she wept over the child that she feared 
would never know a father’s love. Each day the little 
one grew in love and beauty, bringing joy and comfort 
to the mother’s heart. The image of her absent hus- 
band was portrayed in every lineament of its face; and 
this kept him always fresh in her memory. She had 
something to live for now, and the bright face of her 
little girl seemed to buoy her up and inspire her with 
new hope. It was not only a source of joy to its mother, 
but to each member of the household. The sound of its 
little pattering feet and prattling tongue fell on its 
mother’s ear like the rich tones of aniEolian harp. But 
only too soon her idol was snatched from her, and she 
realized the full import of the words : “Thou shalt have 
no other gods before me.” 


220 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


One balmly evening in summer, weary of the dust 
and turmoil of the city, accompanied by her mother and 
child, she went out to La Fayette park. They had wan- 
dered here and there admiring its beauties until the nat- 
ural bridge was reached. By this time the little feet 
were tired, for she had persisted in walking a great 
deal of the way. They sat down to rest and the child 
fell asleep. Placing her on one of the rustic seats, they 
went down to the lakelet. Charmed with the little sil- 
ver-sides sporting in and out among the water lilies, 
they stayed longer than they had intended, and when 
they returned the little girl was nowhere to be seen. 
Detectives were set to work and every means of restora- 
tion employed, but all to no purpose, for nothing came 
to solve the mystery nor could any clue be gained. Day 
after day found the almost frantic mother watching and 
waiting for some news of her darling, but years came 
and years went by and still she was childless. 

All this time her uncle’s health had been failing, 
and very soon he was called to meet with death. Like 
a soldier who had fought valiantly and grown old in war, 
he lay down his arms and went resignedly to meet his 
God. After the burial was over it was found that he 
had bequeathed his vast estate to Bonnie and her mother. 
More than ever, the faithful wife wished for her hus- 
band’s return, for there were no barriers now, she 
thought. 

Though Bonnie had grown older and sadder, still 
there were traces of beauty lingering in the sweet face, 
and it was impossible for one as lovely as she to remain 
long in obscurity, consequently she was courted by belles, 
beaux, and managing mammas until she grew sick of so- 
ciety and its false glitter. Many wooers came, but she 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


221 


repulsed them all save one. Dr. Roy Monford had been 
her uncle’s physician and she had been thrown much 
in his society, consequently a strong friendship sprang 
up between them, and with him it had ripened into love. 
There were traits in his character that she admired, but 
how could she love him when the memory of Phil, whom 
she now mourned as dead, was ever present with her. Yet 
after all we are controlled by circumstances, and these 
turned the scales in Roy’s favor. Bonnie saw that her 
mother’s health was growing delicate, and, if she was 
called from earth who in all the world could fill her 
place? She would indeed, be alone, and in all the years 
to come she saw nothing to brighten her future. When 
she should begin to descend the hill of life and saw only 
sunset rays, on whose strong arm could she lean? Would 
she not need a friend and protector? And who was 
better suited to fill that void in her life than Dr. Mont- 
ford? He loved her fondly, devotedly, and offered her 
his hand and his fortune. She hesitated, but with her 
mother’s persuasive voice ringing in her ears, finally 
consented, and an early day was set for the marriage. 


Ten years have come and gone, and Phil Carlton’s 
adopted child has become all the world to him. “She 
is standing now with trembling feet, where the brook 
and river meet.” Childhood has been past and girl- 
hood sits like a queen upon her brow. Carlton has 
spared no pains on her, and she is prepared to adorn 
any society. This evening we find her where she sat 
ten years ago, gazing into the fire. Phil comes in and 
breaks into her reverie. 


222 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


“Of what is my little girl thinking?” he asks as he 
lovingly strokes her hair. 

“I was thinking of what Mrs. Burman told me. 
She says it is just ten years ago to-night since I was 
left here by a beggar. I was wondering if it was my 
mother, and where she is to-night. Oh! I wish I were 
your child sure enough, papa. What if that beggar 
woman should come to claim me? — it would kill me to 
leave you.” 

“Do not brood over troubles of that kind, my Bon- 
nie, for you shall never leave me. I — ” 

There was an impatient ring at the door- bell. 

“Who can it be,” he wonders, as he answers the 

call. 

“You are wanted on Deadman’s Alley, No. 2226. A 
woman is dying and has something of importance to 
communicate to you. I will be your guide as there is 
no time to lose.” 

They were soon in a cab and driving rapidly toward 
the gloomy street. Reaching the place they went up a 
narrow flight of steps. They were met at the door by an 
old woman, who showed them to the bedside of the dy- 
ing. Phil Carlton held up his lantern and its rays fell 
full upon the face of the miserable creature before him. 
He started back with a cry of horror, saying: 

“It is Elfa, the gypsy.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “you see before you the 
wreck of what Elfa once was ; and you, Phil Carlton, will 
have your sins to answer for, for you have helped to 
make me what I am. You have forgotten how I nursed 
you through the long, weary days of your illness and 
did everything a fond heart could do to alleviate your 
sufferings. I loved you, and after I had promised to be 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


223 


your bride you deserted me. Our race is not like yours, 
we hold a vow too sacred to be broken ; with us a wrong 
strikes deep and is not soon forgotten. Bonnie Dundee 
came between us, and oh, how I hated her gentle face ; 
and how I determined to be revenged. You and Bonnie 
would have been reunited years ago but for me. A de- 
mon seemed to possess me and I gloried in the sorrow 
I had wrought. I allowed her to pine day after day for 
the husband and child of which I had robbed her.” 

“My child?” asked Carlton; “what do you mean, 
woman? Tell me, in God’s name if they are living and 
where I can find them.” 

“Be patient and listen,” she answered; “I had 
money and I bribed the clerk of the Oakland post-office, 
who loved money better than honor, and he gave me 
every letter you wrote your wife after you sailed to 
Europe. Here they are if you doubt my word.” And 
she handed him the well known letters, which, if they 
had reached their destination would have spared all this 
trouble. “I have followed both your paths and have 
exulted over your disappointments. I stole her child 
and yours when she loved it most and for years she has 
mourned its loss. But I have done one good deed, will 
not the Great Spirit forgive the others?” 

She half arose, and with a wild questioning look, 
sank back almost exhausted. Faintly she whispered : 

“Yes, there’s one good deed put to my account, 
while I wronged the mother I righted the father. I 
carried the child to your door and you have raised your 
own. Here is proof of this also, I took it from around 
the child’s neck.” And she handed him a locket. He 
opened it, and it revealed the pictures of himself and 
wife. 


224 


KENTUCKY FOLKS 


* ‘Thank heaven ! she is indeed ours. And I can for- 
give all as I hope to be forgiven, Elfa, if you only tell 
me whereto find my poor, wronged wife.” 

“Ah ! that is the saddest part of all. She has long 
believed you dead, and will be married to-morrow night 
at the second Baptist church in St. Louis.” 

He stayed to hear no more. Driving home like a 
madman he rushed in and broke the strange news to his 
daughter. They soon made ready for their trip to St. 
Louis. But unavoidable delay awaited them. A heavy 
snow storm had come and flakes were falling thick and 
fast. After two hours travel the road became so blocked 
that it w T as with difficulty the train moved at all. They 
reached a station and made a full stop. It was imposs- 
ible to go farther. Another engine was telegraped for, 
but it did not reach them until the following evening. 
By this time Phil’s impatience had grown to a fever heat. 
But it was useless to fret, he had to submit to his fate. 
Just as night began to bring out the stars they drew up 
at the great union depot. Procuring a cab he said to 
the driver : 

“To the second Baptist church; any amount if you 
drive for life.” 

He heard the distant chime of bells, as faster and 
faster the cab flew on. Already the crowd had assembled, 
and should Phil Carlton, like Enoch Arden, look on his 
love but to lose her? He had braved every danger, he 
had suffered the agonies of death and she was his by all 
the laws of God. He would have her or die in the at- 
tempt. The minister had just commenced the ceremony 
when a pale, distinguished looking man entered, accom- 
panied by a beautiful girl. 

“Hold!” he said, as he drew’ near the altar. 


AFTER MANY YEARS 


225 


“By what right, sir?” inquired the minister. 

“The right of a lawful husband,” and he stopped 
in front of the pair. He held out his arms, saying, 
“Bonnie, have you no word of welcome?” 

“O! Phil,” she said as she recognized his voice, 
“my darling, my long lost husband, have you indeed 
come back to me?” and she fell fainting in his arms. 
The crowd dispersed, wondering over the strange scene, 
while Bonnie was conveyed home by husband and friends. 
She soon recovered, and when she found not only her 
husband, but her long lost daughter also, she felt that it 
was indeed a happy Christmas, and one long to be re- 
membered, for it brought to her two priceless treasures. 

A few days later Phil Carlton, his wife and daughter, 
and Mrs. Dundee were en route for Chicago. And now 
there is no happier man than Phil in his elegant home, 
surrounded by his loving family. 

What of Dr. Roy Montford? He was not to be de- 
feated, but he made several trips to Chicago, and rumor 
says will soon bring home a Bonnie bride— none other than 
Phil Carlton’s accomplished daughter. 

After many years all the barriers have been removed, 
disappointments have gone by, and though enjoying the 
sweets of life they feel that they have been purified by 
suffering and are better prepared for that home “not 
made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” 


LITTLE FOOTSTEPS COME NO MORE. 


Over all a sadness lingers, 

In the sunshine, in the leaves, 

In the bosom of the flowers, 

In the sighing of the breeze. 

’Tis a sadness born of anguish, 

And we long for days of yore 
As through blinding tears we whisper — 
“Little footsteps come no more.” 

CHO. 

Little footsteps that we cherished 
Echo on the sunlit shore, 

Now our home is sad and broken — 

Little footsteps come no more. 

Through the days so long and dreary, 
And the hours’ pulseless beat, 

We are waiting, wishing, yearning, 

For the sound of little feet, 

But they come no more to cheer us 
As in happy days of yore, 

And through tears we sadly whisper — 
“Little footsteps come no more.” 

CHO. 

Little footsteps that we cherished 
Echo on the sunlit shore, 

Now our home is sad and broken — 
Little footsteps come no more. 

226 


LITTLE FOOTSTEPS COME NO MORE 


227 


But this darkness will be lifted 
From our hearts whereon it lies 
When we meet our little darling 
Far beyond the sunny skies, 

And we’ll clasp her to our bosom, 
Clasp her as in days of yore, 

Then with rapture we will whisper — 
“Little footsteps come once more.” 

CHO. 

Little footsteps, fondly cherished, 
Echo on the sunlit shore, 

And with rapture we will whisper — 
“Little footsteps come once more.” 


LITTLE ROBERT. 


The pearly gates stood ajar one day when an angel 
left God’s presence and poised his tiny feet within our 
home. We took him in Dur arms, into our hearts, and 
gazing into his soft blue eyes we called him Robert. A 
few brief months — almost a year, he lingered with us, 
brightening our home, growing into our very lives, and 
as we clasped him to our bosom, filling our hearts with 
higher, holier purposes, his beautiful eyes had the im- 
print of Heaven stamped within their liquid depths, as 
if God, when he led him to the crystal bars had left a 
good-bye kiss on the ruby lips, and a long, lingering 
farewell look in his eyes, that he might know his lamb 
when he called him home. Alas, the summons came all 
too soon. Just as he was learning to lisp “Papa,” and 
to hold out his little hands to mamma, just as his merry 
laughter made sweetest music in our household, and just 
as he learned to put up his rosebud mouth for the 
morning kiss, the messenger came. 

Oh ! the darkness, the dreariness, the desolation of 
that hour when I knew that the angel of death had come 
for my boy, my beautiful boy. I clasped my babe in my 
arms and tried to instill warmth into the icy form. But, 
alas ! the sw T eet spirit had gone back to God who gave 
it, and in my great anguish I clasped to my heart only 
little dead Robert. 


228 


LITTLE ROBERT 


229 


The long silken lashes lay on the marble cheeks, and 
the frozen lids hid forever from my view the eyes of my 
beautiful boy. Death had entered our home and in the 
cold dark waters little’s Robert’s hand had slipped from 
my grasp, and in our darkened parlor the little white- 
robed form lay in the tiny coffin. There is an empty 
cradle in our home to-day; there are empty arms and 
empty hearts, little dresses and little shoes all unused. 
No gentle blue-eyed babe to watch wistfully for mam- 
ma’s coming; and oh! the hours, days, weeks and 
months of a mother’s weary waiting and longing for the 
voice forever stilled. 

There is a little mound in the old-fashioned country 
grave-yard more priceless to me than jewels. It is the 
grave of our lost darling, and day after day I bear my 
floral treasures to decorate that mound, thinking God 
knows my desolation, and some sweet day when the 
portals stand ajar to admit my weary soul, He will give 
me back my angel Robert. 


AUTUMNAL PLEASURES. 


It is time for the nuts to be ripe in the woods, 

The nuts by the old meadow-brook ; 

As the fast gliding year brings the season around, 

How the children are on the outlook 
For persimmons and hick’ry nuts, grapes that hang 
high, 

As if daring the urchins to climb, 

Who, with whoop of wild pleasure are on the war-path, 
And with joy are ever on time. 

They dare, they defy, as they onward ascend 
And the treasures in baskets soon lie, 

And their pockets are full, but their stomachs are fuller 
As the stains on their lips testify. 

The soft moonlight invites them out now for a hunt, 
The brown leaves are in heaps on the ground, 

And our jubilant heroes are bent on the chase 
Until the sly ’possum is found. 

In triumph the trophy’s borne home from the war, 

And tired forms creep stealthily to bed — 

On the morrow the envy of half the school-boys 
As they tell of the chase they have led. 

Soon the birds will be hieing away to the South, 

And the corn is full ripe in the field, 

And the jolly old farmers are gath’ring in store 
The unusual abundance of yield ; 

230 


AUTUMNAL PLEASURES 

But “the hateful old gap” must be minded, you see, 
And the truantB are called into play, 

So, like sent’nels in war, they sit idly or stand, 

And this task must be theirs day by day; 
October is fully upon them at last, 

And the air is delicious and sweet; 

And the forest, abounding in beauties so rare, 

Is too tempting for little boys’ feet, — 

With a skip and a bound he’s off on the march, — 
The gap is abandoned, in truth ; — 

Oh, who would not live over childood again 
Only just for the pleasures of youth? 


231 


ALMOST HOME. 


“Are we almost home, Mamma? I am so tired,” 
said my little boy as his chubby hand clung tremblingly 
to mine. 

“Yes, darling, we are almost home,” I answered. 
“Just beyond the hill yonder where you see the dying 
sunlight gleaming through the trees, is our home.” 

“Do you think papa will meet us at the gate?” he 
asked, with a glad light shining in his soft, brown eyes. 

“Yes, and he will take my little, tired Robin in his 
arms too,” I said, as I seated myself on a grassy mound 
while my little boy nestled his head with its wealth of 
nut-brown curls on my knee. 

It was a beautiful evening in October, and the dis- 
tant forest with its banners of bronze, gold and scarlet, 
enveloped in a purplish haze, looked like fairy-land, 
and all day Robin had begged to go to see the pretty 
leaves. 

We had wandered from place to place gathering 
autumn’s treasures until the sun began to swing low and 
the shadows to lengthen in the woodland. Robin was 
weary now and wanted to go home ; besides the air was 
growing chill and the winds sighed mournfully through 
the dim forest. Off we started at a brisk pace and I led 
the little fellow up the towering hill. When the top 
was reached he clapped his little hands and shouted: 

232 


ALMOST HOME 


2 


“Home! we are almost home.” But the long road 
looked to his childish vision, dark and uninviting, and 
he drew nearer to me and clung to my hand in a fright- 
ened way crying : 

“Mamma, please carry me; I’m afraid.” 

Just then he saw his papa coming to meet us. 

“I’m not afraid now,” he said as he joyfully rushed 
to meet him. “Papa will take me home.” 

Our little Robin contracted a cold by our long stay 
in the shadowy forest and the following day he lay on a 
couch of suffering. He grew worse, and as I gazed on 
the fevered brow and heard him say in delirious tones : 
“Mamma, I am so tired; aren’t we almost home?” I 
knew that he was again living over that evening, but 
alas ! I also knew that he was nearing the Beautiful 
Gate, and soon another would meet him and in his arms 
bear him across the dark rolling river of death. No more 
on earth would my little darling with me gather beau- 
tiful treasures, no more would he grow weary, for Robin 
was almost home. Through the fields of Paradise he 
would soon roam; for he was drifting toward the Unseen 
City with its “glint of gold and gleam of pearls.” 

The damp dew stood on his brow, and the little 
hand for a moment clutched the coverlet convulsively; 
and there was a frightened look in his eyes as I saw 
that evening when the shadows began to gather in the 
forest. The sunlight came streaming through the case- 
ment, falling on the little brown head and the pale face, 
lighting it up with heavenly beauty. 

“I am almost home,” he whispered, and his eyes 
closed forever on earth. My beautiful boy slept the 
sleep of death and his spirit had entered the shining 
portals of the New Jerusalem. 














































































































































































































































































































































































MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS 


BY 

MRS. DAVIS. 


The following musical compositions are by the 
author of Kentucky Folks. The first three are posthu- 
mous publications; being copy-rights of 1899, and just 
lately issued. 

They are all regular sheet music size, arranged for 
the Piano or Cabinet Organ, and the songs have quar- 
tette choruses. They are pure in sentiment, harmonious 
in rhythm, perfect in melody, and are the productions 
of a high order of genius. The regular publisher’s 
price is given after each title ; but purchasers of Ken- 
tucky Folks, by mentioning this fact with order, will be 
supplied at half price, plus one cent per copy for post- 
age, if they order of H. W. Davis, 

Providence, Ky. 

LIST. 

INSTRUMENTAL. 

Brass Band March. ... 40c 

VOCAL. 

Angels Called You, Sweet Genieve. - - 35c 

This song beautifully describes the brief career 
of a lovely young lady, a general favorite, who 
died at the age of eighteen. 


We’ll Sail o’er The Sea of Sweet Dreams, Love. 35c 

For true poetic imagery this song is unexcelled. 

The Kiss I Didn’t Get. - 35c 

Bright, catchy, rather humorous, with a good 
moral. 

Her Angel Face I Sea. - 40c 

Extensively sung, and highly endorsed by com- 
petent critics. 

By The Grave Of Her I Loved. - - 40c 

Companion song to the poem, “Joe’s Sweet- 
heart. Of this the publisher says, — “One of the 
best home ballads published in years.” 

Little Footsteps Come No More. - - 60c 

“A perfect gem.”— W ill S. Hays. 







m 1300 












